


The Visitor

by thedawnwall



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blasphemy, Christmas, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, M/M, POV Alternating, POV Castiel (Supernatural), POV Dean Winchester, POV Sam Winchester, Rimming, Sam Winchester Ships Castiel/Dean Winchester, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Unbeta'ed, copious usage of the f word, sam and gabriel get together, spoilers through season 11, starts at S11E23
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 06:07:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 98,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28790709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedawnwall/pseuds/thedawnwall
Summary: Before Amara and Chuck disappear, Amara fulfills a very different need for Dean. With the crisis averted and Dean still alive (no soul bomb detonation,) Dean, Sam and Cas return to the bunker just in time for Christmas.They decide that maybe this year they should actually celebrate the holiday. But of course, nothing ever goes smoothly. They have an unexpected visitor: Gabriel. The archangel is obviously hiding something. Sam and Dean are haunted by strange dreams. Paranormal activity is happening in spite of the wards of the bunker. To top it all off, Castiel seems bound and determined to break up with Dean.It's a very Winchester Christmas at the bunker.(Canon-divergent starting at Alpha & Omega S11 E23 - This fic is complete and posted in its entirety.)
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Gabriel/Sam Winchester
Comments: 18
Kudos: 53





	1. What Did You Bury?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has a playlist! If you enjoy music, here are the songs that helped inspire and guide this fanfic: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7jNfMfZcNsuruH6mhpklZW?si=Tn5PrRwuRVWNy08duw-DCA.

_ "With such thoughts, sitting amongst the suitors, he saw Athene _

_ and went straight to the forecourt, the heart within him scandalized _

_ that a guest should still be standing at the doors. He stood beside her _

_ and took her by the right hand, and relieved her of the bronze spear, _

_ and spoke to her and addressed her in winged words: 'Welcome, stranger. _

_ You shall be entertained as a guest among us. Afterward, _

_ when you have tasted dinner, you shall tell us what your need is." _

The Odyssey

_ “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.” _

Hebrews 13:2

Breathing a long sigh of relief, Dean closed his eyes and prayed. 

In a bar on the other side of the country, Castiel stumbled into the wall and three heads whipped toward him in alarm. He almost responded to Dean’s prayer reflexively, flying immediately to his location, then he remembered Sam.

“Blimey, the angel is drunk,” Crowley gawked, looking from his glass of whisky and up to Castiel as if he’d snuck a drink, or several, while Crowley wasn’t looking.

Sam knew better. “Cas, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Dean is alive. I will bring him back.” 

Then he flashed out of existence in one plane and reappeared in a sunny garden, falling to his knees right in front of Dean. Castiel, of course, was steady in flight, but he found his knees suddenly unstable at the sight of Dean alive. 

Dean sat on a bench, looking remarkably whole. His first reaction was to throw his head back and laugh. 

He grabbed Castiel by the hands and yanked them both to their feet, reassuring him, “I’m alright.”

“Dean, are you -” Castiel protested Dean’s flippancy, insisting on certainty. 

Dean waved it off, putting his hands on either side of Castiel’s face and pressing his lips to Castiel’s, taking advantage of his half-formed protest to slip his tongue into Castiel’s mouth. 

Castiel grumbled in disapproval, pushing against Dean gently, but firmly. He had a million questions. Was Dean uninjured? Was the universe truly saved? Where were Amara and Chuck? Was Dean uninjured? Meanwhile, Dean was insisting on affection at a strange moment. 

Dean released Castiel with a frustrated exclamation, “Alright! Alright. Ask your damn questions.” But his smile was undimmed, softening the bite.

“Where are Amara and Chuck?”

“Gone.”

Some small part of Castiel recoiled. Just as soon as his father had come, he’d left again, and Castiel had so little time with him. But it was a distant pain at this point, soothed over after centuries of adjustment to abandonment.

Dean took his hand again comfortingly, reading his thoughts.

“Where?”

Dean shrugged, “Wherever gods go? I got the sense they wouldn’t be back anytime soon.”

He parsed through each revelation, trying to organize the hierarchy of urgency. If Amara was gone, the threat was past, but also, Amara was gone. So how was Dean?

“I… is that…” Castiel struggled to put together the question he wanted to ask in a way that Dean would answer. Was Dean upset that Amara was gone? What about the connection they shared?

Dean, impatient as always, cut in, “Come on, let’s go back to the bar. I don’t want to have to repeat the same answers a million times.”

Obligingly, Castiel lifted his hand to put on Dean’s shoulder, but Dean stopped him, “Actually, hold on.” 

Castiel’s hand paused an inch over Dean’s shoulder. Dean wrapped steady hands around his hips and pulled them back together, fitting Castiel’s body into his along every knob and bone. Castiel dropped his hand then, curling it around the nape of Dean’s neck and touching the soft hair beneath his collar.

Castiel’s breath hitched, and then Dean’s mouth was on his, stealing the unnecessary breath from his lips. He pressed first chastely against his lips, and then teased sweetly with his tongue to get Castiel to open to him. Castiel did, of course. He returned small caresses against his tongue softly, curious at Dean’s odd mood.

Eventually, he craned his neck back, having to stretch unnaturally to get enough space to meet Dean’s eyes. 

“Dean, not that I am unhappy with kissing you, but are you sure you are alright?” 

Dean released him, maybe with some reluctance, and winked. 

“Yep. I’m ready now.”

Tilting his head, Castiel stared at Dean’s grin for just a moment longer. Then he wrapped his fingers around Dean’s shoulder and took flight.

Within just minutes of his departure, Castiel returned with Dean in tow. Rowena was now missing, having the good sense to flee the moment that she was no longer needed to save the universe. 

Sam greeted Dean, with watery eyes, joking, “I’m so glad I don’t have to listen to Black Sabbath now.” 

“Hey, nobody said that. A guy saves the universe, he gets to pick the music on the way home.”

“As heart-warming as this display is, why don’t you look like something a cat threw up on the sidewalk?” Crowley interjected.

Dean held up a finger, went to the bar and poured a healthy glass of bourbon, then proceeded to tell them about what happened in the garden. How he found that he was unable to detonate the bomb. Chuck’s apology to Amara and her forgiveness. The two disintegrating into twin clouds and funneling up into the sky.

Nothing short of gleeful, Crowley returned to reclaim his place in hell as one of the last powers standing. After, the Winchesters and Castiel packed up into the Impala, with Dean storing a few pilfered bottles of top shelf liquor in the trunk, and then they started the long drive back home.

The sun glared into the windshield as they drove west through the afternoon and into the evening. Dean adjusted and re-adjusted the sun visor as the hours wore on. Sam settled deep into a podcast, earbuds in and seat leaned back. Castiel stared out at the trees in thoughtful silence.

Castiel glanced up as Dean flicked his thumb on his phone to switch from Black Sabbath (as promised) to Tom Petty, having gotten his fill of irritating Sam. 

Chuck leaving stung less than he thought it would, definitely not like it once would have. Heaven was long longer his home and God was no longer his master. He was something that was neither of the earth, nor of heaven. He took showers, occasionally ate blueberry pie when Dean insisted, had sex, experienced human doubts and insecurities and had more than one pair of socks. He also contained some portion of the power of the cosmos and a moveable and perfect memory of the world when man was first made through the slow hand of evolution. 

His home was this - two very particular humans that stood out to him among all others. Their particulars were seared into him, no longer one of billions. His sense of time had shifted with them. He was pinned to this moment in an odd facsimile of mortality, but he was designed to hurtle through time like a meteor. 

Dean started singing under his breath, noticeable because he had turned the music down lower than usual. He appeared to be in an impossibly good mood and was actually taking it easy on Sam instead of trying to blast out his ear drums. 

In a sudden whim of sentiment, Castiel slid his hand between the door and the driver’s seat, past the seatbelt, and briefly grasped Dean’s arm. Dean’s eyes flicked up to meet his in the rearview mirror, and he smiled, pulling his hand away from the steering wheel to touch Castiel’s before returning to finger drumming.

The hours passed in companionable silence and the land began to flatten out after they passed the Mississippi river, trees becoming more sparse. They stopped for gas in the final hour, almost on empty. The air was chilly. Dean’s breath fogged as he rubbed his hands and waited for the gas to finish pumping into the car.

At last, they pulled into the garage, alongside several other classic cars, most of them purely decorative after decades of disuse. Dead tired, the brothers wordlessly unpacked the Impala.

As they split up for bed, Sam grabbed Cas and gripped him in a firm hug, “Glad to have you back.” 

Dean slipped right past them into his room as Sam released him from the embrace and held Castiel’s arms briefly, sharing a significant look, before releasing him and turning down the hallway.

Castiel shared a bond with Sam that was, in its own way, unique and maybe closer than what he had with Dean. Sam was more open with his thoughts, and the two of them could often read each other with a look, something that Castiel found far more difficult with Dean, who buried his emotions, sometimes even from himself. Now Sam and Castiel shared even more in common through the taint of close contact with Lucifer.

Castiel turned too and walked in through the open door to Dean’s room where Dean was tossing his coat over the back of the chair. 

Unexpectedly, Castiel felt a wave of warmth and melancholy looking at the room, which had changed not at all since he became Lucifer’s vessel. Several days-worth of clothes were flung over a chair instead of put away in the dresser or the closet, the hamper was overflowing, papers and boxes were scattered around and a couple of family pictures perched on the shelf behind Dean’s bed. 

Dean wobbled wildy between slovenly and incredibly tidy depending on how much time he had. It was clear looking at the room that Sam and Dean had been spending a lot of time on the road and dedicating every moment to defeating the Darkness. If they had any time to rest over the next couple of days, his room and every room in the bunker would be perfectly in order and Dean would be fidgeting with nervous energy. 

Castiel stood in the center of the room like a statue as Dean moved around. It was easy to believe he hadn’t just spent months without this, uncertain if he would ever have it again. He might have to let go of this room. Let go of this place in Dean’s life. Perhaps he would have to give up even more - he was uncertain where his relationship with Dean stood, even with Amara gone for an indeterminate amount of time. Even now, this could be his borrowed home, a place where Dean may want him now, but not forever. 

As an angel of the Lord, Castiel usually wasn’t bothered by the transience of all things. But the time he spent as Lucifer’s vessel had shown him that maybe this chapter in his relationship with Dean was coming to a close, and he found himself unexpectedly unsettled by the thought of it coming so soon.

“ I’m gonna hop in the shower. Nothing like getting stuffed full of a thousand ghosts from Waverly Hills to make you feel icky inside,” Dean said, headed off to the bathroom while he pulled his shirt over his head.

Sometimes Castiel showered, although he thought of it as more of a sexual activity than hygienic one, whereas it fulfilled both categories for Dean. His body could be cleaned with a miniscule effort of will. He did not follow Dean into the bathroom.

Castiel felt like he should talk to Dean now, lay it all out. But the words stuck in his throat like a knot. Not tonight. 

Dean had kissed him earlier. He was acting like everything would be and should be the same. Castiel decided to delay the conversation another day.

If Dean was in the room, he would have changed his clothes and then carefully hung his shirt, coat, and pants in the closet, placing his shoes inside as well. While Dean would have been just fine if he’d flung his things about too, he was bothered by Castiel just making things so, claiming that it was either “boring” or “not character building.”

Since Dean was not here, he simply remade his clothing into pajamas. Castiel walked barefoot off into the kitchen, hearing Dean’s loud singing emanating through the bathroom door and even the door of the bedroom. He rifled through the cabinets and refrigerator, discovering the right ingredients to assemble a sandwich.

Looking down at the sandwich, Castiel steeled himself for whatever was ahead and returned to the bedroom. He walked in through the door, even though he did not need to, because Dean preferred it.

Dean stood naked in the bedroom, wicking the last bits of moisture off his chest and underarms with a towel. A pluck of possessiveness and longing thrummed through Castiel, reverberating down his spine like the strings on a double bass.

Dean turned toward him and tossed the towel onto the bathroom tile. Castiel only got a brief glance at Dean in his full glory before Dean dove underneath the covers of the bed, complaining, “It’s frigging cold.”

Castiel replied, “It’s December in Kansas, Dean.”

Dean burrowed further, sticking his tongue out at Castiel and eyeing Castiel’s bare feet on the concrete floor. “We should install central heat and air in the bunker next year.”

It warmed Castiel to think of Dean making improvements to this place. Dean thought of the bunker as a home, something he hadn’t had since Mary died, and maybe that was enough for Dean to have a home, if not Castiel. 

He walked over and set the plate with the sandwich down on the bedside table, then hovered for long enough that Dean squinted at him in confusion.

“I know you’re not cold, but looking at your bare feet on the tile is making me cold. Get in here already,” Dean invited.

Relieved, Castiel walked around the bed and lifted up the covers, causing Dean to squawk as cool air hit him, but then Castiel sidled in and resettled the sheet and coverlet over them before Dean fussed outright.

“If you are cold, why are you sleeping unclothed?” Castiel asked.

“Always a real charmer, Cas,” Dean mocked, answering the question not with his words, but by inching over to Castiel. He slid a thigh between Castiel’s and reached an arm around him to pull them flush, nudging the head of his cock, half erect, against Castiel’s clothed hip.

Castiel still hesitated, a dark voice in his head telling him he may no longer be wanted. Rationality told him that Dean was naked in bed with him. That Dean had kissed him twice earlier, exuberantly. Something held him back still.

Dean looked at him again, curiously, and brought his head close enough to rest on Castiel’s pillow. 

“Hey, everything ok?”

Dean ran the flat of his palm over Castiel’s side, from his hip bone up over each of his ribs, and Castiel trembled with desire. 

In their years together this way, Castiel had to assume so much, with Dean offering so little verbal clarity about what they were doing. He wanted Castiel to read the permission and requests in his body. Over time, it felt safe to assume that he was welcome. Over time, he became adept at reading those hidden needs.

Now, he realized that the nature of their relationship could change, he knew that Dean could struggle to express that to him. He didn’t want to make it more challenging.

He never expected the romantic part of their relationship to last forever. But he fiercely wanted Dean tonight.

He closed his eyes to steady himself and decided that he would ask permission at every step.

“I brought you a sandwich,” Castiel murmured quietly, shifting his head closer so Dean’s breath was right against his lips. “I thought you might be hungry.”

“Always the best wifey,” Dean joked, before pressing his parted mouth to Castiel’s and flicking his tongue out. Castiel felt relieved that Dean was being so forthcoming, indicating outright what he wanted. 

Castiel tickled his hand along the swell of Dean’s obliques to his back, pressing his fingertips into the dimples in the small of Dean’s back to bodily draw him closer. Dean’s erection jumped and settled in against Castiel’s groin and his own growing interest through the cotton sweats. 

He stroked his hand up the knobs of Dean’s spine, curling his fingers in to press just the barest bite of his nails into the caress. Dean’s body reacted a vertebrae at a time, arching under his touch like a cat. Dragging his fingers back down, chill bumps raised over Dean’s back, pebbling up underneath Castiel’s fingers. At the curve of Dean’s hip, his palm flattened out and he grabbed Dean’s ass firmly. He leaned his mouth forward and thrusted his tongue in Dean’s mouth to capture his moan.

He hitched up Dean’s leg, placing it high over his own hip. With the space created, he reached around and stroked his fingers more intimately over the still damp crease between Dean’s inner thigh and his perineum.

Dean dug his fingers into Castiel’s back and bit at his bottom lip.

It was as if no time had passed, nothing had changed. Perhaps they had more time, even just for now.

Pulling his mouth away, Castiel instructed, “Turn over - on your belly.”

Breath coming harder, Dean wordlessly complied, shoving the pillow off the bed and putting his head on top of his hands, flat on the bed. Castiel shrugged off the covers and stood up, looking at the long expanse of Dean’s back, now goosebumped from cold, the golden hair that covered him standing up with static. 

Castiel pulled off his sweatpants and t-shirt and threw on the floor, careless this time. Then he swung his leg over Dean’s thighs, his own erection resting against Dean’s ass as he straddled him. Dean made a sound at that and Castiel watched his hands grab at the sheets.

He leaned down and covered Dean’s back, lining up his arms with Dean’s and putting his hands over Dean’s, attempting to warm him up. 

“God I missed you,” Dean sighed as Castiel leaned up just a bit, running his hands over Dean’s shoulders in a light massage. Dean’s words washed over him like warm water, reassuring him that he occupied a place in Dean’s life, a place significant enough where absence would be felt.

“I missed you too,” Castiel said, pushing up against Dean and digging his palms harder into Dean’s lower back. “I thought of this often over the last couple of months.”

Castiel alternated back to a lighter touch, but Dean’s muscles didn’t ripple or contract. Craning to the side to peer at Dean’s turned head, gazing off into the corner of the room, Castiel saw Dean drift from him, so he leaned down and nipped sharply at the hard ridge of muscle at Dean’s shoulder blade.

Dean snapped back with a sharp inhale. Castiel followed with a brush of lips over the spot. 

Slowly, he kneaded tension out of Dean’s shoulders and along the muscle of his spine, running one firm hand back up again to massage the muscles in his neck. He shifted his hips, needing a little more room as he became more aroused, and he rested his cock fully along the crevice of Dean’s ass. 

Dean responded with low sounds of appreciation, growing in volume until he was writhing back against Castiel. He grumbled impatiently when Castiel leaned away, using his hand as a lever to reposition himself lower to straddle Dean’s calves.

Griping sharply, Dean started, “Cas, I don’t -”

Then he clamped his mouth down hard over the remainder of the complaint when Castiel’s thumbs parted the mounds of his asscheeks and ran his tongue flat and wet over Dean’s hole. Dean’s whole body jumped and his hole fluttered, and Castiel leaned up to watch, feeling a rush of pleasure at Dean’s reaction. 

Dean did not object, so Castiel proceeded tentatively. This wasn’t something he and Dean did very often. He knew that Dean had certain boundaries, sexual preferences that sometimes were strict and other times could be tested or pushed all depending on his head space at the time. But how he wanted to run any thoughts of all others out of Dean’s head tonight. 

Castiel paused and then pressed a kiss, lips closed, to the tight opening and Dean groaned, saying “Holy fuck.” 

Lunging forward to feel Dean’s sounds from the inside, he wriggled his tongue back again to touch Dean’s hole, causing Dean’s words to end in a gasp.

He shifted his fingers to tease the pad of one finger along the rim of Dean’s entrance, sweeping it through the moisture he’d left there, then he returned to lapping at the pucker of Dean’s hole while he pushed his finger inside him. Dean’s legs trembled beneath him as another pleased groan reverberated through him. 

Castiel grabbed Dean by the hips and jerked Dean’s hips up to meet his mouth and pull him to his knees. Dean kept his red face in the sheets, resting against his forearms rather than coming to his hands, ass in the air. 

“Hold still,” Cas commanded, releasing Dean for a second to open the bedside table drawer and grab the lube. The whole table shuddered under the force of his yank, the sandwich plate rattling. 

Castiel leaned back over Dean, pressing his body close enough that his hand jostled against Dean’s balls as he coated his cock in lube. His hands were trembling with desire, and he forced himself to slow down, to focus on Dean’s signals, to make certain.

He released himself and reached his hand forward, wrapping his hand around Dean’s cock instead, chasing out a gasp. “Cas, come on.” 

Awash with a wave of gratefulness, Castiel pressed a flurry of kisses over the freckles on Dean’s shoulders, even while Dean grumbled impatiently. Dean didn’t like things soft and tender. At best, he would accept slow. But he had insisted enough times that he wouldn’t break, that Castiel knew he crawled with discomfort at tenderness. 

Castiel obliged him by positioning the leaking head of his cock against his hole and pressing insistently. Dean shut right up, his hands fisting in the sheets. Dean’s body resisted before finally relenting under steady pressure, then Castiel was gasping this time.

With shallow thrusts, Castiel filled him up a little deeper each time as Dean’s body would allow, taking him apart a centimeter at a time until he was able to pull back completely and then bottom out in smooth strokes. 

Releasing the vice-grip he unknowingly had on Dean’s hip, he beared down over Dean, placing his hands over Dean’s and holding them down. He set a faster rhythm, the sound of their flesh joining beginning to echo throughout the room.

Dean shouted, wordlessly, when Castiel hit the right angle to press against his prostate. His body trembled and he almost collapsed to the bed, but Castiel’s hand whipped away from beside his face and grabbed Dean’s hip again, steadying him.

In a rare moment of obedience, Dean tensed his thighs and biceps to hold the pose. Castiel leaned away to reach below him with his lubed hand and wrapped it around Dean’s cock. 

Dean muffled a moan into the mattress, and Castiel struggled to maintain his steady rhythm. Castiel never tired, never got out of breath, but he did get overstimulated. He did find it difficult to maintain his control over the tidal wave of arousal, and coming usually robbed him of conscious control over his grace. 

Barely hanging on to his orgasm with iron will, Castiel slammed against Dean’s prostate and focused his grasp on the rolling over the underside of the head of Dean’s cock until he felt Dean go rigid all over for a single, slow motion second. Then Dean was coming in his hand, shooting into the sheets and dripping over Castiel’s fingers. 

He gentled his stroke, riding it out with Dean. 

Mercifully, he allowed Dean to collapse down onto the bed. He brought his hands back to Dean’s hips and let himself go. In just seconds, he was coming too, stilling to fill Dean up and then taking a few final gentle thrusts, savoring Dean’s heat. Burning it into his brain.

After, Castiel gathered Dean to him and slid them both onto their sides. As he did so, his sated cock slid out, resting wet against him. Dean gazed out into the room in dazed silence, and Castiel tried not to scrutinize his expression.

Finally, Dean said, “We need to spend more time apart if that’s what sex is gonna be like after.”

Castiel leaned his head back into his pillow, “I will interpret that as a compliment, not an actual request.”

Dean didn’t respond, just squeezed his hand where it wrapped around Dean’s stomach. After a few more seconds in contented silence, coming down from the high, Castiel asked, “Are you planning to shower again?”

Typically, Dean showered after sex. In fact, he showered a lot. Likely a hold over from the years he spent on the road, sometimes without enough money for hotels. Showering was a luxury, and cleanliness was something Dean reveled in. 

“Too tired,” Dean shook his head, mumbling, then his eyes popped open, “Oh wait!” 

He leaned up in a hurry while Castiel watched, amused, and grabbed his sandwich. He tore away a bite that was almost half of the whole sandwich, scarfing it down within seconds. Another holdover from his childhood. When you grew up not always knowing where your next meal would come from, and sometimes going hungry so your little brother could eat, you didn’t waste food. Nor did you waste time eating it.

Castiel left him and grabbed a washcloth from the bathroom, wetting it and tossing it at Dean. In the bathroom, he cleaned himself, not with a washcloth, but through his will. 

When he looked back, Dean was already sleeping, buried in the covers up to his nose. He glanced at his clothes on the floor, but figured that he’d follow Dean’s cues tonight in bed. He slid back in naked and resumed his position before, holding Dean from behind. Dean did not stir, already snoring softly.

That night, Castiel did not slip into a trance or retreat into his thoughts, he simply watched and held Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Like Real People Do by Hozier


	2. I Guarantee You'll Hold It Often

The next morning, the air was considerably more chilly in the bunker and Dean’s nose and one ear were cold. He was sore and gross, so he attempted to bolt from the sheets into the shower in a dignified manner. He shut the door behind him to keep the steam in the room, maybe a little too loudly, but Castiel didn’t sleep anyway. He shook under the spray as the hot water started to whisk away chill bumps.

Waking up before Sam in time to get the longest and most luxurious shower was a special game he played any time they had time to spare at the bunker. If he lingered too long after soaping down and getting clean, he figured it was just his right as the winner that day. 

Once he finally convinced himself to get out, he stepped out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam, sighing, “Whew, I feel like a human again.”

Cas was sitting on top of the made bed, fully dressed with his nose in a book. Some kind of stupid nerds and wizards crap that Sam gave to him. Castiel started the book before they had gone to the cage and sprung Lucifer, and Dean had not touched it since then, leaving it right where it sat, dog-eared on top of the dresser as Castiel left it. 

He just “hmmed” in response to Dean’s statement.

Dean pulled clean clothes out of the dresser and whipped them on as fast as he was able, trying not to stare at Cas as he did so. Something was off about Cas, and he knew it. But calling him out on it was another thing entirely.

Dean walked over to the little table in his room that he’d discovered a year or so ago at pawn shop. They’d gone to the shop on a hunt, trying to track a cursed item back to its source, and the record player had been sitting on the counter, on hold for another customer. But the thing about pawn shops is that if you have cash on hand, there’s no such thing as on hold. 

Since then, Dean had been slowly building an epic record collection ranging from the 1960s through the 1990s. A lot of the records he found at second-hand stores were shit, but Houses of the Holy was one of his prized possessions. He pulled the Zeppelin album out and carefully put it on the record player like he was holding a priceless relic. 

After a moment of quiet static, the opening riff came through the speaker and he turned back to the bathroom to shave. 

“Sorry for passing out on you last night.”

“I was not bothered,” Castiel said, projecting his voice to be heard above the music from the other room.

“Yeah, I guess since it was our first time alone together since everything, I just wanted to make sure you were OK,” Dean said, trying to sound nonchalant even though he was digging. He lathered up his face with shaving cream and ran the razor with the grain.

Castiel had reassured him yesterday that he was OK after sharing his head with Lucifer for a while, but that was with everyone around, including Crowley, Rowena and Chuck.  Even still, Dean was inclined to let it go because Castiel was nothing if not almost totally without guile or embarrassment. He rarely told lies, especially about his emotions or mental state, because he was not human enough to recognize that humans were just great big tangles of repression and shame. But every year, every moment really, Castiel would do something astonishingly mundane that he had never done before as if it had just occurred to him.

At this point, Sam and Dean were getting older and pretty set in their ways, but Castiel was always, wonderfully changing. In fact, Dean fully expected that some day Castiel would also outgrow him and his stunted emotional bullshit. 

Castiel replied simply, “I’m OK. There is nothing to be concerned about.”

Dean pressed, “Come on, Cas. You were stuck in there with Lucifer. Death had to shield Sam from his own soul after being exposed to him for too long.”

There was a beat of silence, and Dean was on the verge of checking to see if Castiel was even still in there, when Castiel appeared silently in the doorway making Dean jump. 

“That is true, but Lucifer mostly left me alone. He was focused on defeating the Darkness and regaining hell. He only really interacted with me when I protested his methods.”

Holding the razor still against his skin, Dean shifted his eyes from his reflection in the mirror to Cas, meeting his eyes to measure the truth of his words. Cas looked earnest, but not. There was something there, and there were too many years between them of bad decisions for Dean to be fully comfortable with it.

Frustrated by Dean’s disbelief, Cas insisted, “Dean, he was utterly indifferent to me. I spent my time watching an imaginary television in an imaginary bunker. You can ask Crowley. That is what I was doing when you tried to expel Lucifer.”

Dean relented, after all, he never fucking wanted to be grilled about his feelings. And Castiel was very earnest, even if his statements were dubious. Dean was the last person on earth who could throw stones. So he just shrugged and said, “Alright,” and finished up the final stripes of shaving cream, then washed up his razor.

As always, they convened in the kitchen in the morning, the Winchesters drawn in by coffee and bacon and eggs, and Castiel there for the company. Sam was clacking away at the laptop, probably already scanning his RSS feed of local news for strange events, while Dean was sneaking pieces of bacon while the eggs finished cooking.

“So, I had a dream last night -” Dean started, wedging a spatula under a fried egg and flipping it. 

Sam cut in before he could continue, “I swear to god, Dean. If this dream is x-rated, I will spit in your coffee.”

“Get your head out of the gutter,” Dean scowled at him. “I had a dream last night where we were back at Bobby’s that one time for Christmas.”

With a smile, Sam completed the thought, “Hah! That’s when Dad got gored by a minotaur in that corn maze that had been cursed by Greek gypsies.”

Dean cast a look at Sam, who seemed just a little too gleeful about the goring, which truly was awful and required John Winchester to actually go to an emergency room, a feat in and of itself. He had berated Dean and Bobby the entire time for bringing him there and had to be watched constantly to keep from ripping out his IVs and taking off. Sam had been too young to be held responsible for the decision, but perhaps Dean and Bobby had shielded him from the seriousness of John’s injury.

“Right,” Dean continued, “and Bobby let us drink beer and made an actual fucking ham for Christmas.”

“Is ham significant?” Castiel asked. 

“Yeah, Cas. A lot of Americans eat ham at Christmas,” Dean replied patiently. “It is also delicious.”

“Like Turkey at thanksgiving?” Castiel asked rhetorically, then continued, “During Saturnalia, wealthy Romans would roast an entire pig. So ham is fitting, given that you and Sam would be hard pressed to eat an entire pig.”

“Great point, Cas,” Dean responded dismissively, trying to bring the conversation back around to his original point because Sam looked a little too interested in continuing to follow Castiel’s inane line of thinking. “So anyway, I was thinking we should have Christmas at the bunker. Not sure what all that means, but I am thinking it should involve drinking, ham and Die Hard.”

Sam hid a smile behind his coffee cup, adding, “No gifts though.”

Dean opened his mouth to agree, but Castiel cut in first, “You do not agree with giving to charity?”

They both looked at him in confusion. “It is traditional to give clay pots filled with coins to the poor, right?” Castiel asked, but looking at their faces, he continued, “Oh, maybe that isn’t done anymore.”

“Welp, that settles it. Americans are assholes and Christmas is a hallmark holiday,” Sam griped. 

“No gifts,” Dean agreed, plating up breakfast for himself and Sam and putting it down on the table. “We basically are the poor, Cas.”

Dean ate his breakfast at record speed, wiping up the last bit of yolk with toast before Sam could even finish his bacon, moaning in happiness at the first home cooked breakfast in a while.

“Ok, but if we’re doing this, there will be decorations,” Sam laid out his terms, and Dean’s moan of food pleasure turned into a groan of irritation. 

“No,” Dean grated, “No stupid frou frou garlands or santas or whatever girly crap you’re thinking about.”

But it was too late, Sam had already tilted his laptop toward Castiel and they were looking through Christmas decor on Amazon trying to decide what was a must-have. Grimacing, Dean got up and started on the dishes, banging around a bit more forcefully than necessary.

“Definitely need stockings. Dean -” Sam spun the laptop around to face Dean. “Snowmen or reindeer?”

The only response Sam got was Dean flicking him off over his shoulder with a soapy hand, flinging water in their general direction.

“I will take your silence to mean penguins.”

Dean turned to glare hatefully at his brother and say, “Bitch.” Then he grabbed Sam’s dirty plate, forcing Sam to jump after him to save his last bit of bacon. Sam didn’t even deign to say ‘jerk’ back, knowing he already had Dean trumped.

As Sam and Castiel debated what else they could get within their honestly non-existent budget, Castiel asked off questions as Sam introduced him to the wonder of Amazon, like, “Do the stars indicate the anticipated Christmas cheer?” or “Can you order mince pies on Amazon?"

At the last question, Dean snorted in laughter, and Sam replied tactfully, “If we order them now, I don’t think they’ll last until Christmas, Cas.”

“Good point. I didn’t consider the issue of food spoilage. We’ll have to order them on December 23rd to accommodate for two day shipping.”

As Sam looked through tree ornaments, figuring that they could easily cut their own tree, he spotted some vintage looking tree stars, and he stopped mid-scroll. 

“Wait, there’s all kinds of stuff around this place. I wonder if they have any Christmas decorations stored.”

In a flurry of excitement, Sam and Castiel developed a plan to divide and conquer the storage spaces of the bunker, assigning more to Castiel because he could flit around the house and cover ground faster. As they marched out of the kitchen, Dean grabbed Castiel’s wrist with a little “Hey,” and pulled him back to plant a kiss on his mouth. Then he let them proceed with their treasure hunt.

Castiel, with his angelic powers, located the cache of Christmas decor within an hour of their departure. He let Sam know and then flashed over to Dean, who was diligently removing each piece of gear from the trunk of the Impala and ensuring it was in tip top shape: sharpening knives, restocking bullets, disassembling and cleaning guns, the whole nine yards.

“You’ll want to see the decorations,” Castiel told him. “They are not, as you said, simply ‘frou frou.’”

Intrigued, Dean set down the silver dagger he was sharpening on a whetstone and followed Castiel down the hall to join Sam as he pulled items out of a large wooden chest. As expected, Sam was pulling out plenty of glittery tinsel and snowmen ornaments and golden angel-shaped candleholders, but he also pulled out creepy-looking tomes, a box of tarnished silver bells and even a sword with an ornate carved handle.

“Woah, suddenly Christmas just got a lot cooler,” Dean said, walking over to inspect the items up close. He picked up a black book, the cover was framed by a square border of green leaves and holly berries and it had a demon on the cover with a pink, forked tongue sticking out and red eyes. “Sweeeet. Gotta love some Krampus lore.”

“Trust the men of letters to have us covered for any Christmas worst case scenarios,” Sam commented and swapped over to a second coffin-sized wooden chest full of decor and paraphernalia once he’d reached the bottom of the first.

Dean reached down with a scrunched nose and picked up a little festive, hand-sewn ball of green leaves and white berries, “And a spread in Better Bunkers & Gardens.”

“Mistletoe has practical, as well as decorative, purposes, Dean,” Castiel said and Dean threw the ball of leaves out of his hand like he’d been burned. “It was believed by some that hanging mistletoe on the limen of your door would prevent evil from entering. Much like salt.”

“Well does it?” Dean asked cagily, deciding that the decorative sword was a safer thing to explore. 

“I am uncertain. I don’t know what specific evil it was meant to protect against.”

“People also used to hang it from the headboard for fertility. That’s where the kissing myth came from,” Sam added and Dean rolled his eyes. He was surrounded by nerds. 

“The white berries were supposed to symbolize…” Sam trailed off, looking uncomfortable. 

“Semen,” Castiel supplied helpfully. At that, Sam and Dean trained their eyes straight down to the task at hand, doggedly avoiding making eye contact with each other until that moment had more than passed. Dean grabbed the Christmas sword by the hilt and used it to hook through the leaves of the mistletoe and toss it back into the first empty wooden chest.

Once they had the second box unloaded, Sam started categorizing all of the discoveries to determine what room they should go to, while Dean stood back and took it all in.

“Is it just me, or does this discovery feel like foreshadowing?” Dean wondered aloud, knowing that in their lives, “I mean, is it possible that we could just discover a chest full of creepy wards, books and weapons and not have it come in handy?”

And because the universe hated the Winchesters, at that exact moment, they heard a loud bang and then a resultant clatter of broken glass from the direction of the Great Room.

Dean exchanged a deadly glance with Sam, shifting the Christmas sword in his hand to a real grip, while Sam’s hand went straight for his gun. Silently, Dean signaled a wait gesture at Castiel, and then they made their way to the Great Room quietly. 

Pausing only briefly outside the entrance, Sam and Dean emerged together, while Castiel soundlessly flew to the other side of the room to cover all possible angles.

“Boys!” 

All together, they lowered their weapons, stunned. The ornate pommel of the Christmas sword sagged in Dean’s hand, utterly useless against the being in the bunker.

Gabriel paused as he brushed soot off his clothes to throw his hands wide, smiling just as widely. Apparently, he had tumbled down their chimney, if the large amount of soot now drifting on the air, wood scattered about and other broken sundry was any indicator. His mercurial demeanor was unchanged, but he had grown a close-trimmed beard, which struck Dean as odd given that angels did not have to shave.

“Aren’t you dead?” Dean was the first to recover.

“Not so quick on the uptake are we, Dean-O?” Gabriel skipped over and tapped Dean on the nose with one finger. Dean jerked back and waved his hand in the air like Gabriel’s hand was a fly. 

Come to think of it, maybe it was a stupid question. After all, how many times had Gabriel died right in front of their eyes only to come back in the most surreal way possible. He was a trickster God, so resurrection was just part and parcel of the gig. Still, Dean wasn’t happy to have Gabriel in his home. 

Taking the words right out of Dean’s mouth, Sam said, “Why are you here?” 

Sam had put his gun away, also recognizing it’s uselessness, but Dean noticed that his other hand was behind his back. Trust his little brother to carry an angel blade around like a pocket knife. Just in case.

“I’m home for the holidays, boys! Someone’s home anyway.  _ Your  _ home to be exact,” Gabriel said, and with a dramatic flourish snow started falling from inside the great room and covered the ground in a bluish blanket. In a sing-song, Gabriel continued, “Please have snow and mistletoe and presents by the tree.” Obedient to his will, a brightly lit tree appeared next to Castiel with glittering tinsel.

“Oh hell,” Sam sighed, looking over his head in his patented ‘why me?’ look. Dean followed his gaze - high in the rafters of the bunker, where snow was mysteriously emerging, about 5 feet of bright red ribbon hung with a ball of green mistletoe at the end. 

Gabriel grabbed Sam and planted a kiss right on his lips underneath mistletoe and then reappeared out of reach before Sam could react. 

Sam spluttered for a second, then realizing he was firmly outclassed, he turned and stomped out of the room, speechless and red.

  
  
  
  


When the Great Room stopped snowing and Sam had recovered, the two brothers cordoned themselves off to discuss what to do about Gabriel in private. Castiel was tasked with distraction to ensure that the archangel in question did not eavesdrop or otherwise disrupt their deliberations. 

It had been some time since Castiel had seen his brother, and he’d had very little time in any case to get to know Gabriel in the past. 

This presented an interesting opportunity to meet an angel who, like him, chose to walk the Earth. He rejoined Gabriel in the Great Room, having promptly made himself comfortable by flopping down in one of the few wingback chairs by the fireplace, with his feet propped up on the nearby bookshelf. 

Gabriel greeted him jovially, “Brother, long time no see!”

Castiel stated, “We thought you were dead.” 

While the archangel’s help would have been useful in a variety of scenarios since he’d gone missing, Castiel did not yet hold it against him that he’d never offered his aid. He did not know Gabriel well enough to understand his intentions in staying out of heaven’s problems.

“Yeah, sorry about that. I’m not really meant for the big stage, not like you apparently,” Gabriel said the last part as if he was impressed. “Never would have thought the angel of Thursday would have been at the center of all this eschatological drama.”

Castiel shrugged and sat down in the other of the two forest green wingback chairs. “I am not at the center, the Winchesters are.”

Gabriel snorted, “A very angelic answer. Don’t give me that crap, Cas. Not many angels have the cojones to stick it to the man.”

Squinting in concentration, Castiel tried to understand what Gabriel meant by “the man.” It appeared to be some colloquialism that indicated the opposite of what it actually meant, given that he had sided with humans over the angels. 

“So, I’m dying to ask. What happened to Lucy?” Gabriel cut in, ending his musings about human slang. “I didn’t even think he could be killed.”

Killed. Castiel repeated it in his head. Was Lucifer dead? He knew that he disappeared when Amara expelled him, but did not know where. He looked up at Gabriel in astonishment. “How do you know he is dead?”

“What? You didn’t feel that? It was like a solar flare or a caldera exploding. BOOM!” Gabriel clapped his hands loudly for emphasis. “I would have thought the whole universe felt that.”

“No, you must share some kind of connection with him,” Castiel said. “I didn’t even know he was dead. I just knew he was forced to leave my being.”

“Yeah, I heard you were the unfortunate soul who carried Lucifer out of the cage. Once again, I bow down to your goddamn balls of steel.” He mimed a bow, inclining his head and hands toward Castiel. Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Castiel knew that every action he had taken had originated with retrieving Dean Winchester from hell and was forever derivative of Sam and Dean’s great purpose. 

He could not accept Gabriel’s accolades - they were certainly not deserved. 

He merely shrugged in response, and Gabriel continued, “Wow. Ok, so it had to have been the Darkness or God that off’ed him. So to whom do I owe my gratitude?” 

“Amara expelled him from me, and she also dealt a mortal injury to Chuck at the same time, so I assume she must have done it since Chuck was in no shape to do so.”

Gabriel did a double take, “Wait, who’s Chuck?”

“Chuck was a prophet of the Lord who became God’s vessel when he returned to Earth.”

Whistling long and low, Gabriel hopped out of his seat and paced around fire, arms crossed over his chest. 

Castiel studied him, wondering what his true intentions were. He had never known his brother in heaven, not truly, only from afar in so far as they were all connected as a host. He had, of course, met him here on Earth, but only briefly and he was so unlike an angel in his behavior that he was inscrutable to Castiel.

He understood from the Winchesters that both humans and other gods believed Gabriel to be a variety of minor deities, making sense of his powers however best they could, while Gabriel walked among them becoming a part of their mythologies. It was difficult to believe this was the great Gabriel, herald of God, who played such a central role in many of God’s machinations when He was still actively involved in shepherding his creations.

Finally, Gabriel nodded, “That stands up.”

Castiel wondered if he’d simply heard through his supernatural grapevine about these events, or if he’d sensed the cosmic energies warring. Obviously, every being on the planet had noticed the dimming of the sun, and someone of Gabriel’s power would have understood such an event better than most, although he wouldn’t have been threatened by it himself. Angels were not Earthlings, and as such, they were neither reliant on the planet or the sun for their existence. 

“And you call him Chuck,” Gabriel cackled. “I can’t wait to read what the next prophet writes about the mighty and powerful Chuck.”

“He wasn’t particularly mighty or powerful,” Castiel replied, not concealing his disillusionment. “Although he did heal his rift with the Darkness, and that was like the Father I remember.”

“Chuck didn’t live up to the hype, imagine that,” Gabriel snickered, almost bitterly. He waved a hand dismissively, “Sounds about right.”

Finally, Gabriel stopped pacing and flopped back down in the other wingback chair, tilting his head to gaze at Castiel. “So the mortal wound. That was what damaged the sun?”

“Yes. God is light,” Castiel answered simply. 

“Chuck is light,” Gabriel corrected gleefully. Then he stilled and gazed off at the fire, eyes unfocused. Generously, Castiel decided to honor his silence and he sat companionably with his brother, both silent and still as space.

This state came naturally to angels, who experienced the passage of time with far less urgency than humans. They did not fill up all time and space with talking and action.

Eventually, the fire began to dwindle and Castiel got up to throw another log on it from the metal rack sitting next to the hearth. Finally, they heard steps come down the hallway and both angels turned their heads, Gabriel’s eyes sharp and present again. 

As he entered into the Great Room, Dean pointed at Gabriel and said, “You can stay. For tonight. Tomorrow we’ll see.”

Surprisingly, Gabriel just smiled, looking at Dean out of the corner of his eyes, and said, “Thank you.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed at Gabriel, but just turned his head to Castiel and said, “Can I talk to you in the den?”

Talking turned out to be watching re-runs of Walker Texas Ranger on the couch and eating microwave popcorn. Dean had apparently reached his limit of stress and serious decisions for the day, opting to close the evening out with mindless diversion. 

Mind still back in the study, Castiel turned over Gabriel’s words and expressions in his mind, trying to make sense of them, until Dean said. “Stop thinking so hard. I can hear your cogs turning over here - it’s interfering with my Chuck Norris time.” 

Dean pulled him closer, wrapping his arms around Castiel and settling back into the arm of the couch, and Castiel found himself able to dismiss Gabriel and his mind drifted back to Dean. 

Castiel knew moments like these were on a countdown clock with dwindling time. He had to muster the courage to say something - to let Dean go. But not tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Galahad by Josh Ritter.
> 
> This fic has a playlist! If you enjoy music, here are the songs that helped inspire and guide this fanfic: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7jNfMfZcNsuruH6mhpklZW?si=Tn5PrRwuRVWNy08duw-DCA


	3. Maybe Everything That Dies Someday Comes Back

Sam woke the next morning after a long night of dreams. The last one pushed him awake with a gasp, and it took several minutes for him to dispel the threads of the dream hunt. He sat up in bed and breathed for a long second. Then he swung his legs out, socked feet hitting the floor.

His room was the biggest in the bunker, which had been decided after a long argument that Dean eventually won. Given that Dean was part of a couple, Sam felt like it made the most sense for Dean to take the bigger room with the large two vanity bathroom. But Dean insisted daily while they lived out of bags and slept on the couches that he didn’t want anything fancy. He would barely acknowledge that he was in a relationship, eventually only breaking down to contend that Castiel didn’t sleep or shower or use the bathroom anyway, so he was a non-factor.

There was really no arguing with Dean once he had decided he was going to do something for you, even if it’s something you didn’t even want. But in this one instance, Sam couldn’t deny that the big room was nice.

Grabbing his phone off the nightstand as he walked to the bathroom, he put some music on shuffle and hopped straight into the shower. 

Occasionally when he was in the big room at the bunker, he felt lonely, and he wondered if this was what his life would be forever, or for however long he had left. As odd as it was to say, Dean made relationships look easy, mostly because he expected them all to end poorly. Not to mention, he had miraculously found intimacy with someone who shared this crazy life with them and was likewise damn near unkillable.

At this point, Castiel was his brother, but he also unintentionally made Sam feel like a third wheel, and he was certain that Sam and Dean’s absurdly codependent relationship also made Castiel feel on the outside too. 

Occasionally uncomfortable, sure, but their family was stable. Sam was loathe to mess it up, especially with his terrible track record. It was better when there wasn’t intimacy involved, like when Charlie had come to stay with them or, hell, even when Kevin had been there looking coked out on divine inspiration. That was exactly why he was irritable beyond measure that the universe had decided to send them Gabriel.

It was the kind of karmic irony that made him certain that something more devious than Chuck was out there pulling the strings.

Reluctantly, he flipped the dial of the shower and clambered out to get dressed. He emerged from his bedroom, ready to face Gabriel or whatever other oddities the day would bring. Blissfully, there was coffee in the pot, but Dean was sitting at the table instead of cooking breakfast and that is when Sam remembered that they were 100% completely out of food.

“Damn,” Sam said, putting his coffee cup down after taking a large, scalding sip.

“Yeah,” Dean grunted in agreement, looking positively miserable. 

“Rock, paper, scissors?” Sam suggested.

“Nah, I’ll do it,” Dean grumbled as he scooted back from the table and walked over to the counter to pour his coffee into a to-go mug. “But I could use some help shoveling and salting the drive. It snowed last night.”

Sam sat in unhappy protest for a couple of seconds before Dean kicked the leg of his chair, and he jumped up saying, “Alright! Alright.”

Once the drive was passable, Dean eased out onto the road and turned the corner while Sam closed the garage door behind him. The Impala had rear wheel drive and was a real bitch to handle in the winter in Kansas, but Dean never took any of the other cars, even though he had managed to restore one or two to working condition. Anytime Sam brought it up, Dean would shush him and then say to the Impala, “Baby, don’t listen to Sammy. You’re my one and only girl.”

Without Dean around to complain, Sam remembered that they had left all of the Christmas decor sitting in the hallway after Gabriel’s untimely arrival, so he enlisted Castiel’s help with distributing the correct piles off to each room.

At some point, Gabriel appeared and grabbed a box of candles out of Sam’s hands before he could protest, scampering away singing a Christmas carol in German. The three of them made short work of the distribution, and Castiel volunteered to decorate the hallway while Sam and Gabriel began the massive undertaking that was the great room.

After Sam defeated a frisky animated snowman with a candlestick, Gabriel mercifully left him alone, humming carols and only using his seemingly limitless power to renew the snow falling from the ceiling.

They spent about an hour in stubborn quietude, categorizing and shelving Christmas lore books. Uncertain what to do with the sword, Sam just put it in the middle of the table, golden filigreed pommel clanking as he put it down. Sam glanced over at Gabriel, trying to determine if it was a bad idea or not to engage Gabriel in conversation. 

Finally, he couldn’t handle it anymore when he pulled out a little figurine of Mary kneeling in front of the angel Gabriel, and the actual genuine article was there to answer questions.

“Is it weird to see yourself represented in decorations?” Sam broke the silence awkwardly and Gabriel turned to him, surprised. He held up the figurine and waved it in the air.

Gabriel walked closer and plucked the figurine out of his hand, “Oh, this blond, blue-eyed cherub? Nah. It’s not weird because it didn’t happen like that. Doesn’t even feel like me.”

“It didn’t happen like that, as in everyone was brown, or it didn’t happen like that?” Sam asked, although warily. Talking with the angel Gabriel about one of the most important events in Western history was kind of like getting to eat lunch with Albert Einstein. 

“No,” Gabriel started, then tracked back, “Well, yes, obviously. No one was blond haired and blue eyed. But I just mean that Luke was a doctor and he couldn’t stand that there was  _ anything  _ he did not know, so he’d fill in the gaps… creatively.”

Admittedly, Sam’s biblical proficiency could have been better. At one point, he was better read, but he stopped caring so much right around the time that Zachariah and his douchebaggery burst into their lives. 

“That doesn’t sound very doctor-like to me,” Sam responded. In his experience, doctors were pretty cut and dry. Arrogant, sure, but still rational.

“You have to remember that in those days medicine was more of an art than it was a science,” Gabriel explained, putting the figurine on a shelf and turning away. 

Looking at it, Sam silently weighed just how much of his world he wanted to rock with his next question. 

Gabriel continued on anyway, saving Sam the trouble. “Mary, though, she was a cool chick. Wicked sense of humor - never batted an eye about a prank. She took everything in stride. Maybe that’s why God -” he paused while grabbing a long twine of faux evergreen garland and expelled a little sound of mirth, “I mean  _ Chuck _ chose her.”

Losing the thread, Sam disassociated from the moment, thinking about his mother, not the biblical Mary. Gabriel had echoed something John Winchester said once almost word for word - she took everything in stride. At the long silence, Gabriel eyed him strangely. 

“Oh yeah, that’s right - John and Mary. You two were clearly chosen by fate or Chuck or whatever for all this,” Gabriel continued, almost for his own benefit rather than Sam’s. “Say, what was Christmas like at ye olde Winchester house?”

Sam glanced at Gabriel, wondering if he had intentionally changed the subject, giving Sam that out. 

“It sucked,” Sam blurted out, then faltered. The rest tumbled out as a defense of Dean. “Well, Dad never did anything anyway. But it didn’t totally suck because Dean usually tried. On good years, we would drive around and see other people’s lights, then eat chinese takeout and watch Christmas movies.”

He clamped down on the urge to continue explaining the many times that Dean at least attempted to save Christmas, feeling uncomfortable already that he’d opened up to Gabriel.

“Sounds magical,” Gabriel replied, but he didn’t sound like he was mocking. Fleeing his overshare and Gabriel’s kindness in return, Sam climbed the stairs up to the mezzanine as Gabriel wound the garland around the nearest column, and then he held out his hands for Gabriel to toss him the garland so he could wind it the rest of the way up. 

“So, Luke was a know-it-all. What about John?” Sam changed the topic as he and Gabriel made quick work of the other columns in the great room. 

“John the Gospel or John the Baptist?” Gabriel clarified. “Hell, just about everyone had a brother named John back then. You’re gonna need to get specific.”

They spent at least another hour stringing lights and finding homes for candles. Patiently, Gabriel allowed Sam to continue extracting biblical trivia from him, although Gabriel seemed to focus on the part that were most amusing to him, rather than anything historically significant.

“Paul the evangelist was a dick and it shows because he was freaking bosom buddies with Uriel.” 

“The magi were just three random dudes who happened to be staying at the same inn as Mary and Joseph.” 

At one point, he even animated a gingerbread man ornament and a troop of nutcrackers to re-enact the actual death of Julius Caesar. That led to a conversation about Gabriel and Christopher Marlowe painting a penis on Shakespeare’s face one time when he passed out drunk. 

After an hour or two, Castiel rejoined them and they stacked all of the remaining decor that would adorn a tree in the corner. They would have to tackle that later after they could chop down a tree. Luckily, there was a tree stand. 

Castiel seemed supremely uncomfortable with being an accomplice in pulling back the curtain on the bible, so they switched from early Christian history to pagan history, with Gabriel magnanimously interjecting out of nowhere, “Santa was a lady.”

Thankful for the shift in conversation, Castiel agreed, “Yes, a germanic deity named Holda.”

Sam gaped, still finding that he could be surprised in spite of hours of his entire religious foundation being dismantled.

“She was a foxy blonde too with a lot going on under that red and white cape,” Gabriel added lasciviously. 

Sam found himself almost laughing, and transformed it into a mock gagging noise instead. “No one wants to hear about your sexual exploits with Santa Claus, Gabriel.”

“Actually, her name wasn’t Santa Claus or Saint Nicholas. Renaming pagan Gods and holidays was the Christians’ favorite way of assimilating the germanic tribes,” Gabriel grumbled, sounding genuinely annoyed at the erasure of early cultures that he remembered fondly. “Her name was Holda.”

Dramatically, Gabriel sighed and sagged into the banister of the stairs like he was in a Gene Kelly movie, one hand over his heart. Sam spotted the amusement on Castiel’s face, and he asked.

“You said  _ was _ ?” 

Gabriel sighed, “The Morrigan killed her after the Romans started bringing together all of the different traditions. Empires don’t do great things for diversity, go figure.”

He met Castiel’s gaze out of the corner of his eyes, both of them exchanging wondering looks at the rare display of ruffled feathers from the usually unflappable archangel. 

It was surreal expressing sympathy to Gabriel about the death of an ancient goddess that Sam had never heard of before two minutes ago, but he did it nonetheless, feeling like it was the right thing to do. “I’m sorry, Gabe.” 

“Nah,” Gabriel shrugged it off, pulling nonchalance back over him like a cloak. “Loss is life, Sammy. And paradoxically, death is far more final for immortal beings.”

Beneath them, the floor rumbled lightly as the Impala roared into the garage. Grateful for the natural closer to the conversation, Sam dusted his hands off and said, “Gonna go help unload.”

Down in the garage, Dean was jubilant about his haul, proclaiming, “We’re having steak tonight, Sammy! Steak and pie.”

Dean had clearly won some real money at the pool hall for him to splurge on good food and to return anything other than miserably grumpy from a grocery run. Whenever they had plenty of fake credit cards to lean on, they bought whatever food they wanted, but they hadn’t had time recently to check in with contact who bought data for them off the dark web. Which meant hustling at the pool hall or poker table or other odd jobs if they could be found. 

Sam narrowed his eyes at Dean, pulling bags out of the trunk until Dean said, “AND salad. Jesus Christ, how are we related?”

  
  
  


They made quick work unbagging and putting away food, both of them hungry after skipping straight over lunch. 

Right outside the shelter of the garage, Dean fired up their cheap charcoal grill, taking solace in the manly task well away from the damn winter wonderland of the rest of the bunker. It was just past four, but twilight had arrived already, covering the sky and the ground in a blue glow.

The grill warmed up slowly, but didn’t do much against the sub-freezing temperatures in northern Kansas or the falling snow. After a little while, his beer became slushy at the top, turning it flat.

Cas brought him the steaks after Sam finished seasoning them and hung around in his tan trenchcoat, as if he needed it for the cold. 

“How did things go with Gabriel today?” Dean asked as he slid the steaks onto the grate with a sizzle. He shut the top and looked fully at Cas.

“If Gabriel has ill intentions, I cannot tell.”

Dean shrugged, ending in a shiver, and grabbed his beer to down the iced remnants in one gulp. Stepping behind him, Cas put his arms around his waist and pressed his body along Dean’s back.

“Is this OK? You looked cold,” Castiel asked and Dean eyed him strangely. While casual public displays of affection were not Dean’s thing, Cas had never asked permission before because he had never once demonstrated any self-consciousness about it. 

Cas had seemed almost… skittish the past two days. Hesitant to take anything not explicitly granted. Dean added it to the tally of things off about Cas.

“Yeah,” Dean said gruffly. “Why wouldn’t it be OK?” 

In spite of his words, he held himself stiffly, unable to fully relax. Out here in the dark in Lebanon, KS, population of 200, it was basically just as private as their bedroom. Cas tightened his grip around Dean’s waist, always taking Dean at his word, a hopeless study when it came to body language.

“I think maybe Gabriel is seeking… fellowship,” Castiel murmured after a long moment of silence while Dean occasionally pulled his hand out from his pocket to check his watch for time.

Honestly, Dean didn’t really understand what Castiel meant by fellowship. Cas always chose his words intentionally, as if each had a unique meaning that he believed others understood. 

Carefully, Dean responded, “You always look to find the good in your family, Cas. But I gotta tell you - most of them have turned out to be assholes. I doubt Gabriel is any different.”

Dean steeled himself to convince Castiel that Gabriel was fucking with them, so that inevitably whenever Gabriel tried to rope him into some hare-brained scheme, Castiel wouldn’t be so dead-set on giving him the benefit of the doubt.

“They aren’t my family anymore,” Castiel knocked the fight right out of Dean with his unexpected retort.

Dean reached cold hands out of his pockets and grabbed Castiel’s hands, pulling their joined hands into his pockets. They spent a long moment in silence, enjoying the physical closeness, even while they drifted farther apart in their thoughts.

Finally, Dean came to in a rush, shouting “Oh crap!” and yanking his hands away to open the grill and flip the steaks with his tongs. Castiel released him while he grumbled about medium steaks.

“Grab a plate for me, will you?” Dean requested and Castiel disappeared where he stood.

When it was this cold and dark, the Great Room was really the only suitable place in the bunker to spend time because of the fireplace. While there were cast iron pipes that traveled from the fireplace to other rooms of the house, it was a primitive system at best that felt like it kept them from dying in their beds as icicles, but little else. 

To Dean’s dismay, the room had obviously been the focus of today’s decorating activities. Each column and the bannister of the stairway up to the mezzanine were twined with garland and lights. It seemed like every shelf had some stupid figurine or dust collector, from porcelain light up angels and christmas trees to nutcrackers and snow globes. Four stockings hung on the mantle. He had noticed more in the chest, so he guessed that little brother had chosen these for them.

It was odd to see the fourth one hanging there, however, and he wondered what he had missed while he was gone that Sam had chosen to assume that Gabriel would still be around to crash Christmas too. Maybe Gabriel had hung it himself.

Dean and Sam enjoyed their feast, with Dean moaning pornographically at almost every bite while pointedly eschewing his salad. Sam was just this side of mortified by his brother’s antics, clearly for Gabriel’s benefit, because he knew better than to be embarrassed about Dean in front of Castiel anymore. 

“Why don’t you just go ahead and sling your dick in there, buddy. We’ll all clear out,” Gabriel jibed, eating nothing other than the rise he got out of others. He was standing near the fire, leaned against the mantle, aiming an almost predatory look right at Dean.

Because Dean would always believe Gabriel was created just to fuck with them, he never interpreted Gabriel’s sexual innuendos to indicate interest. The dude was a master study in what made humans uncomfortable and he wrote his damn thesis on pissing Dean Winchester off.

“You,” Dean pointed at him, “can still get the fuck right out of our house. Eating a steak is a sacred act and it requires the right amount of reverence.”

“Hmmm. The right amount of reverence sounds suspiciously like a dude in a porno that’s pretending that deepthroating is just the best thing since sliced bread,” Gabriel retorted, and Dean ironically choked on the last bite of his steak, eyes watering. Sam had to physically turn his body away to hide his laughter.

Castiel unintentionally spared Gabriel from Dean’s seething response, asking, “Why would sliced bread be the best thing?” Then, after a beat, he added, “And what is deepthroating?”

“That’s it,” Dean finally successfully cleared his throat and wiped at his eyes, “you need a phone, Cas. You gotta Google this shit like normal people do.”

Castiel opened his mouth to pose follow-up questions, and Dean just held up a hand and said, “Nope. Not doing it. And you,” he turned back to Gabriel, “once again, why are you here? Is it just to fuck with me and corrupt Cas, or is that just a fun bonus for you?”

“I told you. I came for Christmas.”

Looking flummoxed, Dean opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Sam jumped in, far less accusatory than Dean’s response would have been, but spot on none-the-less, “What Dean means is why did you come  _ here  _ for Christmas?”

“Let’s just say…” he started, raising an eyebrow at Sam, “I have a fetish for dysfunctional families.”

“I don’t know if we should feel flattered or insulted,” Sam responded, beating Dean’s witty retaliation to the punch. 

Sam met Dean’s eyes in a silent question, but neither of them felt particularly threatened by Gabriel’s presence, mysterious as it was, and in their business good instincts were essential. In true Winchester fashion, they both decided separately to let it go at that for tonight, Gabriel buying another night in the bunker through his earnestness, if not his honesty.

Pushing away from the table irritably, Dean headed off to his room without a word, discomfited with the unusual peace of their time in the bunker. It was a struggle for him to leave behind the dishes for someone else to clean up, but he figured he was owed it after volunteering to do the grocery run today.

He showered off the smoke of the pool hall, then bundled up in the bed, which was honestly the only way to fight the cold if you weren’t near the fire in the Great Room.

Propped up in the bed, he surfed for paranormal news on his phone, looking for a hunt they could knock out easily in a few days. Perhaps they could even take care of a few different monsters before Christmas.

He hated down time. While the occasional break and good meal was therapeutic, Dean never felt like himself unless he was doing. He recognized that Sam truly enjoyed being the bunker, reading books, listening to music, doing small projects here and there, and he knew that Sam would prefer to play the Bobby role in some hunters’ lives - lore expert and retired hunter. While Cas’ preferences were harder to read, he always felt like Cas preferred to be still - truly physically still. He could gaze at a single speck of dust illuminated by the sun or a little bird outside the window, neither of which Dean would have ever even noticed, as if it was the very fiber of the universe and worthy of admiration. 

Ultimately, hunting felt like a selfish pursuit that only Dean needed, so he restrained himself painfully as long as he could each time, seeking out distractions and opportunities to care for his people before he inevitably forced them out of this safe, still place again. 

A knock at the door interrupted him from his thoughts, and he sat up straighter, thinking it was Sam, “What’s up?”

The door opened and Cas hovered in the doorway. Dean raised one eyebrow.

“Since when do you knock?”

Cas opened his mouth, but appeared to have no answer, so Dean just held out a hand in concern. There was obviously something that Castiel was working through in his mind. Given what Cas had just been through, Dean was not at all surprised, but it was unlike Cas to not overshare his emotions with scientific preoccupation.

While Dean was more than happy to not talk about anyone’s feelings, he was worried about Cas and what Lucifer had done to him.

After a brief hesitation, Castiel did walk over and take his hand, sitting down on the edge of the bed beside Dean’s legs. 

“Nope,” Dean replied, and Cas jumped up as if he’d made a mistake. Aiming a hard look at him, Dean just lifted up the covers and spread his legs for Castiel to sit between them, saying, “Dude, calm down.” 

Cas silently crawled in, and by the time he was between Dean’s knees, he was in pajamas as well. Dean decided not to rib him about magicking his clothes away, instead he pulled Castiel in against his chest and settled them both back on the wooden headboard.

“Dean, I want to talk to you about my time as Lucifer’s vessel.” 

“Is that what this is about? I already told you, I’m not mad at you. I get it,” Dean replied, trying to communicate reassurance by tightening his arms across Cas’ waist.

Sure, Dean had a hard time admitting and expressing anger. With Sam especially, he would go months just wanting a genuine apology, but never asking for it and never getting it. But Cas was wonderfully and sometimes pitifully overly apologetic. 

In this case, though, Dean really was fine.

Was it a stupid thing to do? Yes. Was it some self-sacrificing bullshit? Yes. Was it something he should have talked about with Dean and Sam first? Yes. But was it anything different than a goddamn typical Winchester move? No. 

Dean continued, “This is what we do – it’s the same reason I was willing to carry that soul bomb to Amara and the same reason you let me.”

For the first time, Cas relaxed slightly in his arms, and Dean gave himself a mental high five for being so intuitive. 

“Well, I would first argue that you would ever let me stop you anyway. But the only reason I didn’t try is because I knew Amara would never let you detonate the bomb.”

“Wait, what?” Dean strained to see Castiel’s face. “Why did you even support the plan then if you knew that?”

“Because I thought your courage might inspire Chuck to greatness. And it did.”

Dean was stunned, “Wow.”

Cas laughed softly, “I know my father. It may have been a long time since I have communed with him. And he may be a quite odd and unassuming visage in his Chuck-form, but humanity has always been his weak spot and he would sacrifice much for you all.”

“Well, damn,” Dean was impressed, and also relieved at the ease of conversation they had settled into. He smirked, “What would you have done to try to stop me?”

“Much,” Cas stated. “Probably suggested that as an angel I would have been a more stable vessel for the bomb, and that it was unlikely you would be able to contain it.”

Rolling his eyes for no one’s benefit, Dean groaned, “See. You’re a Winchester.”

“I love you,” Cas replied, low and utterly earnest, out of nowhere.

Dean wrestled down a smile as he responded, “Yeah.” Sliding down, he pulled Cas with him and unwound their bodies, facing him fully. 

Cas seemed to have no shame about his feelings or expressing them. It was like a person saying ‘I’m hungry’ or ‘today it’s going to be sunny and 65.’ It was a simple statement of fact. Dean had no doubt that Castiel meant what he said, which was a revelation in and of itself. There was not a person on earth whose love Dean did not doubt, except Castiel’s. 

What Dean did doubt was whether Cas understood or felt love like a human. He was already shocked that an angel could desire him - one that didn’t eat or drink or sleep. Although he had long since stopped doubting that Cas wanted him.

But Cas seemed to have a tenuous grasp on human emotions, and while it was clear that he was capable of love, Dean knew human love could be petty and jealous, resentful and full of arguments. And those were things Dean just did not see in Cas. 

On the other hand, Dean knew he loved Cas, in whatever fucked up way he was capable of. Far and away from the pure and good emotions Cas felt, Dean’s emotions were uncomfortable, ugly - full of anger and possession at times, and definitely full of insecurity and envy. And he knew he could not put that on Cas, who had fallen more than once for Dean. 

“Dean, what about Amara?” 

Cas’ blue eyes were nervous, full of import, which confused Dean because his question seemed like it came out of nowhere.

“What about her?”

“You said she and Chuck left. You seemed uncertain of her return,” Cas pressed. “Are you… OK?”

“Why wouldn’t I be? In my experience, gods are nothing but trouble.”

He watched as Cas’ expression cycled through frustration, as if struggling to explain.

“You cared for her. There was something between you two. It seemed that she cared for you as well.”

Uncomfortable, Dean shifted away from Cas in bed so he could shift his eyes away without it being so obvious. Bearing the Mark of Cain had forced Dean to face many of his worst fears. Cas himself had saved Dean from that fear once before: becoming as evil and corrupt as he always feared he truly was after decades enduring torture in hell. Under the influence of the Mark, he had to face that nightmare once again. 

Amara helped him heal that wound. She showed him that the Mark itself was evil, but the darkness inside both of them was necessary so long as it was balanced - it was a part of their nature, neither good nor evil. But while he’d begun to accept that the balance was important, that he was not fundamentally wrong, he really wasn’t ready to explore that with anyone, much less Cas.

“Yeah, she helped me,” Dean acknowledged finally. “But she needed to go deal with her own family shit.”

Lifting his hand, Cas touched Dean’s face, who steeled his expression in turn, feeling a little too exposed. “Will she return?”

“I don’t know, Cas,” Dean shrugged, pushing himself up to a sitting position again. He turned away and grabbed his phone off the bedside table, flicking it on half-heartedly. “Why do you care so much?”

He scrolled without looking, hoping that Castiel would leave it alone. He didn’t understand why he was pursuing this line of questioning anyway. A part of Dean worried about maintaining the balance, overcoming the evil he committed and felt in himself. Amara’s presence had been calming and reassuring - he had never felt more understood as he did around Amara. 

Now, he just felt paranoid that Cas saw that too and was also worried about him canting too far, slipping back into darkness. If Sam was the one person in the world Dean would do absolutely anything for, Castiel was the one person whose good opinion mattered to him most. The angel was both what he wanted and what he admired wrapped into one infuriating package.

He felt the bed shift beside him as Cas moved to lie on his back.

“I want you to be happy.”

“Then stop asking me questions,” Dean snapped back. And there it was - the imperfection of human love: petty and argumentative, biting at concern sometimes like a wounded dog. Awful as it was, that was love. Unsurprisingly, Castiel obeyed, keeping silent while Dean fumed beside him.

Eventually, they laid in silence for long enough that Dean wore himself out and surrendered to sleep.

  
  
  


In his dreams, he slammed his foot on the gas pedal of the Impala, making impossible turns and jumps, as he and Sam chased a leviathan driving a Dodge Charger through a quaint suburb of Boston. As they went over a bridge, the bottom suddenly dropped off and they were falling.

With a start, Dean sat up in bed, suddenly cold as he jerked away from Castiel’s warm back. The angel didn’t wake but did roll over, eyes closed and undisturbed.

Dean took a long breath and tried to clear his mind, glancing at his phone, which read 3:13am in bright letters that made his eyes ache. Distantly, he could hear soft music, and he wondered if Sam was still awake. 

Silently, Dean slipped out of bed, opening the door and padding sock-footed out into the hall. His gaze drew down toward the kitchen and a soft wash of light angling out from the entryway. He could hear the increasingly clear picking of a fiddle. Halfway to the kitchen, a single white taper in a wooden candle stick emitted the barest circle of unsteady light as large drops of wax dripped down.

Shutting his eyes, Dean concentrated and picked out the melody: The Band. 

The realization filled him with the warm certainty that John Winchester was just down there, no more than twenty feet away in their kitchen. He walked steadily down the hallway toward the light. When he rounded the corner, John greeted him. “Dean! Come here. Your brother and I were just talking about your latest hunt.”

Sam and John were sitting at the small kitchen table, the leftover Christmas ham sitting out on the table with a knife nearby and a half eaten pecan pie with a bit of crumbs and gooey filling spilling out on the formica table top. A pillar candle burned, sitting on a saucer closer to the ham.

The two seemed at ease, as if they’d been engaged in lively conversation right before Dean walked up, and he stared, both amazed and a little jealous that they hadn’t woken him up earlier. 

“Dad, Christmas was yesterday, you missed it,” Dean couldn’t help but complain as he sat down.

“I’m here now,” John replied, apologetically. “Besides, leftovers are the best part.”

Dean had to give John that, and he was just happy John was here, late or not, so he grumbled, “That’s true” and dug a fork straight into the pie. 

While they picked at leftovers, John told them the story of his latest hunt to explain his tardiness: a den of vampires infesting an orphanage. Half the children were turned, and the other half drained until they were killed. While he talked, he filled three tumblers with a healthy pour of bourbon and passed them out. 

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his father in as good of a mood, and it was contagious. They lazily picked at the leftovers and exchanged hunting stories until dawn started to lighten the warm, candlelit room. John shared an old story about a hunt with Bobby in San Francisco where sirens lured Bobby onto a sailboat and then stranded him, naked, on Alcatraz Island. 

Dean retold the story of the rabbit’s foot, and John laughed until there were tears at the corner of his eyes when he mimicked Sam’s face when he said, “I lost my shoe.” Glaring at him, Sam one-upped him by retelling John about the spell that gave Dean the ability to talk to animals, but it went a little too far when he ended up barking at the mailman and hitting on a poodle.

“Alright, boys,” John wiped at his eyes. The sun had risen now and the room was filled with light, the candle had burned down to the bottom of the saucer, the wick slowly being consumed by wax. “It’s time for the three wise men, and then we need to hit the hay. We should have done it at midnight, but better late than never.”

At John’s instructions, Sam lined up three shot glasses in front of each of them. Then he filled the first of each of their shot glasses with amber-colored whisky. Dean pulled the vodka out of the freezer and helped fill the second. In the third, Sam grabbed a bottle of golden tequila from the cabinet and finished the set.

They each tapped the shots down on the table before throwing each down the hatch together, doing the same with each down a line until all nine shot glasses were empty. As expected, Sam was the only one who winced as the shots went down, hitching in a big, audible breath of air when they finished. 

“Wuss,” Dean snorted.

“Bitch,” Sam glared back.

Laughing, John stood and started to swing the duffel sitting beside his chair up onto his shoulder. It caught the corner of the table as he pulled it up, and the table rocked. Before Sam or Dean could steady it, the bottle of whisky, which we perched just on the edge anyway, rattled off and shattered on the floor.

Dean jumped to his feet to grab a towel, but a hand grasped him and his eyes shot open as he jerked awake in his bed. Teetering briefly between two worlds, Dean eventually grasped reality and his eyes focused. The joyful dream faded as Castiel’s hand on his forearm became more real. 

Meeting Cas’ eyes at last, he saw the sharp expression of vigilance in his partner’s eyes and his hand flew immediately to his gun. 

“What is it?” Dean whispered as he got quietly to his feet, finger on the safety. 

“Glass breaking. In the kitchen.”

Before Dean could protest, Cas disappeared and Dean tore down the hall after him. He almost rammed right into Sam, who was right around the corner from the entryway, also armed, but holding the gun limply at his side.

“What the hell?” Sam said, staring down at a bottle of broken whisky. Amber liquid expanded slowly across the grooves of the tile.

Even Gabriel was there, and Dean realized irritably that he was the last to arrive.

Other than the broken bottle and the mess on the floor, the kitchen was completely undisturbed. This particular bottle of Jameson had been stored in the cabinet, nowhere near where it ended up in a few large shards. Dean knelt down to look more closely, feeling sick to his stomach. The details of the dream had faded already, dissipated like smoke the moment Cas grabbed his arm in alarm, but the memory of the table shaking and the bottle of whisky tipping off was still clear as day.

On the floor and throughout the room, nothing seemed amiss. Dean picked up two of the largest pieces of glass and disposed of them in the trash.

Mind working furiously, Dean’s eyes settled on Gabriel. “Did you do this?” 

“Don’t offend me,” Gabriel bit back, sounding genuinely affronted. “I don’t do subtle acts of poltergeistery.”

“Well fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Atlantic City by The Band.
> 
> This fic has a playlist! If you enjoy music, here are the songs that helped inspire and guide this fanfic: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7jNfMfZcNsuruH6mhpklZW?si=Tn5PrRwuRVWNy08duw-DCA


	4. If It Brings Me To My Knees

They split up immediately and without conferring. Sam stalked straight off to the Great Room and started devising a long list of supernatural tests to run to narrow down the culprit. Dean swept up the mess, then started a thorough sweep of the bunker for any other physical signs of disturbances or spectral traces. Castiel flitted through the bunker to illuminate each and every ward, ensuring that none of them had been compromised. 

“The wards are all intact,” Castiel updated Sam just minutes after departing, striding over to the table in the cold, dimly lit Great Room. Gabriel was serving as a sounding board for Sam, who was considering every option from sage cleansing to ouija boards. He was pacing as he listed ideas and Gabriel agreed or ruled them out. 

“Sam, are you OK?”

Stopping dead to give Castiel an irritated look for asking the obvious, Sam replied, “No. My home is haunted. In spite of the fact that it should be a supernatural Fort Knox.”

Cowed, Castiel sat down at the table and folded his hands on top in front of him, waiting for Dean to return. 

Sam returned to his pacing, but this time in silent contemplation, as if he was mulling a problem only he could solve. The idea of the bunker being unsafe was deeply unsettling. After years of drifting through life from one trauma to the next, the discovery of the bunker had brought Sam a peace he hadn’t felt since he’d left law school. Something had slipped past him, and if it could slip past both him and the wildly diverse wards all over this place, it had to be something truly awful.

Eventually, Dean joined them, his work much slower without the assistance of angelic teleportation. Counter to Sam’s anxious countenance, Dean was deadly serious like he always was on a hunt, but also obviously vitalized, with an extra bounce in his step. 

“Clean as a whistle,” he confirmed, then paused. “Look, I need to tell everyone something.”

Once again, Sam came to an abrupt stop as if he’d hit an invisible wall, glaring suspiciously at his brother, “What.”

“It’s going to sound dumb, and I have no idea if it has anything to do with our resident poltergeist, but I was having a dream and right before I woke up, a bottle of whisky broke.”

Dean’s recollection of the dream was a little fuzzy, but he described to them how John Winchester had come late for Christmas, and he, Dean and Sam had stayed until the early hours of morning sharing hunting stories, eating leftovers and drinking, right up until John knocked a bottle of whisky off the table.

“He was listening to The Band,” Dean recounted directly to Sam with a slight smile. The Band was John Winchester’s favorite, and he only listened to it when he was in a stunningly generous mood. Sam didn’t smile back, already withdrawn back into deep thought.

“So… Dad is haunting us?” Sam let them in, working it out aloud. “No, it couldn’t be Dad. He didn’t give a shit about the holidays.”

“Perhaps one of the Christmas items we uncovered is haunted or charmed,” Castiel observed, scanning the room.

“OK, haunted item, that’s possible,” Sam nodded, becoming considerably calmer each second with a solid lead to follow. “We should check the chests for any wards that may have dampened a haunted item.”

“Aw, damn, it’d be a shame to put it all away right after you all worked so hard to put it up,” Dean mocked triumphantly and loped off to check the empty wooden chests. 

“Not all beings have the ability to stalk dreams,” Gabriel observed. “Few ghosts can do that.”

Sam nodded. “Right. We need to research creatures that either send dreams or walk in dreams.”

With that, he went straight to the shelves, pulling out books until he held a stack in his arms, dumping half down in front of Castiel unceremoniously. There was no stack for Dean, to no one’s surprise. 

“Hey! I can read,” Gabriel griped defensively, also left out, “in many languages. All languages, actually.”

With a scrutinizing gaze, Sam turned to him. Between Gabriel’s absurd longevity and his ability to absorb books near instantaneously like Cas, he could be a huge help in the research process. But when it came down to it, Sam just didn’t trust him enough to not re-read the book himself anyway.

Sam was willing to bet Gabriel had a short list already in his head of potential culprits, and yet he had been conspicuously silent so far. A being that could regale them with the story of the death of Caesar down to the very vintage of wine Brutus had drank that day just could not be without a clue. 

Was he willing to let Gabriel crash his house? Yes. He didn’t feel a particular sense of threat from Gabriel’s presence. But trusting him with research was another thing.

“This is a family thing,” Sam said, feeling like it was better than just saying ‘I don’t trust you’ outright. At that, Castiel tilted his head up from a book toward them, but Gabriel’s face revealed no reaction.

“Fine,” Gabriel shrugged, slumping down in a chair at the table and petulantly leaning his shoulders all the way back to look at the ceiling.

  
  
  
  


They researched through the night and past the dawn, Dean staring off comatose with his head propped against his hand, having done everything else he could think of including running the EMF one by one over every porcelain santa and string of garland, starting a roaring fire that had honestly overheated the Great Room, and cooking breakfast at the obscene hour of 4am. 

When his eyes drooped and he jerked as his head slipped off his palm in near sleep, Castiel said, “Dean, you should go back to bed.”

Coming to in a hurry, Dean crowed, “I’m a professional! I can handle a damn overnight watch.”

“Eventually, Sam will need sleep too, and you will be better prepared to take over his vigil if you have slept while he is…” Castiel waved a vague hand in Sam’s direction. 

Dean and Castiel’s eyes travelled together to Sam, who was hopped up on four cups of coffee, mouthing words as he read them under his breath with his knee jiggling hard enough that the table was vibrating just the littlest bit. His earbuds were in and his music was loud enough for Castiel to safely conclude it was contributing to long-term hearing loss, the bass a tinny echo heard clear across the room.

Castiel was still concerned about Sam’s uncharacteristic mania. Typically, Sam was calm and focused, like an anchor holding a boat in place during a storm. He usually had a unique ability to cut through the weeds to find meaning. 

Shrugging, Dean stood up with just a little sway. He was halfway to the door when he stopped and turned back to Castiel, “You coming?” 

Castiel wasn’t surprised at the invitation. Dean usually took comfort and companionship where it was offered, but it wasn’t just his body or his touch that Castiel wanted. He knew Dean to be both practical and selfless, and he was uncertain which of Dean’s two sides he hoped was responsible for him maintaining their physical closeness, even though he shared a greater connection with another.

Castiel had always believed that Dean chose to maintain an affectionate relationship with him because it was easy. They both led the same lifestyle and had few expectations of stability from each other. Dean had attempted building a life with others, but it had always failed because Dean was drawn to the hunt. Choosing to share his bed with Castiel had evident benefits. 

The future always led to their separation, even if Dean by some unlikely chance lived to a ripe old age and Castiel wasn’t eventually annihilated by the tip of an angel blade wielded by his many enemies, immortality ensured that. 

Castiel knew Dean was dead tired, so he wasn’t inviting Castiel to bed to have sex with him. It was about intimacy. And Castiel felt an overwhelming mental nausea from some great emotion he did not yet recognize at the thought of Dean keeping this up out of pity.

Earlier, he’d told Dean how he felt, as he had many times, and he’d felt weak and manipulative even as the words came out of his mouth. He wanted Dean to be happy. He was summoning the strength to let Dean go.

He, of course, had no particular reason not to accompany Dean as he had finished reading quite some time ago and had been likewise sitting in silence for hours. He, of course, could hear a disturbance anywhere in the bunker from any room and could be summoned instantly by Sam through prayer. 

He shook his head, “No,” and looked away as Dean’s footsteps receded.

Once Dean had gone, he turned back to stare at the empty exit for some time. FInally, he returned a watchful gaze back to Sam, who was unexpectedly already looking at him with a measuring look. Too tired and adrenalized to be more attuned to social cues, Sam held his gaze as if there was an equation in Castiel’s eyes he was trying to work out.

Sam could always read Castiel more effectively than Dean. He had an uncanny ability to ferret out and name Castiel’s emotions long before Castiel could himself, many of them foreign to him still given the vast expanse of his existence that had come before he was called to pull Dean Winchester from hell. 

Not for the first time, Castiel found himself in a position where there were things he wanted to hide from the Winchesters. He had deceived them before, although never on his own behalf, always because he felt it was for the greater good, misguided or not. 

A wave of guilt washed through him as he broke Sam’s gaze. This time, he knew he had to identify these new emotions without the benefit of Sam’s intuition and experience. But more importantly, he could not share his concerns with either brother because it would unduly influence Dean.

Dean deserved to make up his own mind about Amara, without having to consider Castiel’s emotions. 

As he repeated that to himself, as he often did, Castiel felt as though he was also lying to himself, but he did not know how. Right and wrong, good and bad, those were cardinal directions written on his soul. He himself, though, was a mystery and he could not yet interpret his own artifice.

“You OK?” Sam had turned off his music and taken out his ear buds. Steeling himself, he met Sam’s eyes again and he was unaccountably touched that Sam noticed and put aside his obsessive search to look at Castiel with so much earnest concern.

Briefly, Castiel searched himself for the answer and found that he could say with honesty, “Yes.” Things change. If nothing else was true, that one fact was. He would be OK, and time was a human construct that was more transparent and moldable among angels. 

“I never really got a chance to talk about what it was like for you, being Lucifer’s vessel,” Sam pressed. “You know you can talk to me about that. Anything at all.”

With a surge of affection, Castiel reached across the table and put his hand briefly over Sam’s. It was always a relief that he could actually express emotion this way with at least one Winchester without making him supremely uncomfortable. Taking his hand back slowly, he replied, “I am very sorry that I could not tell you both what I intended when we went to the cage.”

“Yeah, I’m still pretty mad about that,” Sam acknowledged, but without any heat to it. “We could have figured out another way. I mean, hell, turned out Lucifer was a dud anyway. None of us knew that yet, though.”

“I regret the necessity to betray you.”

“Cas,” Sam interjected with exasperation, “You didn’t betray us. You tried to help us, not just us, everyone. Like you always do. I’m mad because I -  _ we  _ \- were both scared shitless for you. Not to mention the mindfuck of Lucifer running around wearing your face.” Sam shuddered almost imperceptibly. 

“You are right. I did not expect to survive,” Castiel validated Sam’s fears. 

“When I was in the cage with Lucifer, and even after, he made me feel like I was going insane. I couldn’t tell what was real and what wasn’t. I couldn’t decipher my own thoughts and feelings from his,” Sam admitted.

“He targeted you, Sam. He had some sort of specific interest or obsession with you, probably because he believed that with you as his vessel, he could accomplish anything,” Castiel replied, as kindly as he could. “By contrast, he had very little interest in me. I was a means to an end.”

Considering Castiel’s statement for a long moment, Sam appeared to be bothered by the idea that he shared some kind of strange connection to Lucifer that singled him out for greater punishment. Eventually, he seemed to push that aside and focused back on Castiel.

“Ok, I can accept that. But something is off with you. I can tell. If it’s not Lucifer, what happened?”

Carefully holding his expression still, Castiel struggled with whether to deny it outright or give Sam some portion of the truth. Which would satisfy Sam more and buy Castiel more time? 

“Cas, we’re family. We’re brothers. I want to help,” Sam reassured.

“It is not just mine to tell, Sam,” Castiel replied, regretfully. 

With a sigh, Sam said, “OK, Cas,” and put his earbuds back in his ears, now onto the new cache of Christmas lore they had uncovered. Figuring Sam would need some space from him, Castiel left him to it. 

  
  
  
  


Thirty minutes later, the caffeine and anxiety was beginning to wear off and Sam was flagging. The sun had fully dawned now, morning light pouring in from the high windows of the Great Room. Perhaps it was the exhaustion, or maybe he just needed some levity from Castiel’s mysterious melancholy, but he decided to bring a certain bit of lore he was considering to Gabriel.

As he put his phone in his back pocket and grabbed the book, he realized that he had no idea how to find Gabriel. He knew from both asking and experience that when Castiel disappeared, he was either sitting in the Great Room or tucked into a bit of celestial ether.

He wandered into the hallway, feeling as though praying was just too intimate somehow. He paused to consider where Gabriel might be when he noticed the sunlight catch and sparkle on the floor. He crouched down and reached out a hand, realizing it was a trail of red glitter running off down the hardwood floor around the corner toward the den. 

What had Gabriel said the night before? No subtle acts of poltergeistery. This particular oddity had Gabriel written all over it. 

Following the trail of glitter down through the den, then out into the foyer, he discovered he was on the path of a two foot tall, wooden santa with hand-painted rosy cheeks and a red velvet bag thrown over its shoulder. It marched away from him in short, jerky steps and steadily vomited a stream of red glitter in puffs from its mouth. 

“Gabriel, where the hell are you?” 

“You rang?” The voice called out behind him, making him jump. 

Sam considered giving Gabriel the same lecture he and Dean had given Castiel about a thousand times about entering rooms the normal way, but he knew it wouldn’t do any good. Instead, he sighed and shoved the book at him, opening it up to the page he’d been holding with his thumb. “What do you make of this lore?”

“Ahhh, the Ghost of Christmas Past.” One-handed, Gabriel neatly snapped the book shut dismissively, “Nope. Dickens didn’t have an ounce of supernatural intuition in his bones.” 

“Alright,” Sam eyed him, restraining himself from follow-up questions about Charles Dickens. That was beside the point. “But can’t things sometimes become true because of the collective human imagination?”

With a smirk, Gabriel put a casual elbow up on a shelf, “You’re the brains of this band of misfits, aren’t you?” A puff of red glitter upchucked out of the Santa’s mouth between them. 

Sam tamped down on his reaction to the comment. A compliment on his intelligence and problem-solving skills from an age old archangel and god definitely stoked his ego, but he didn’t trust it to be earnest. He shrugged, “Bobby used to help us crack the harder cases. Cas has been really helpful too.”

“Trust me, with where Castiel is right now, picking out a random bit of trivia from his millenia of knowledge is like finding a needle in a haystack.”

Thinking back to their earlier conversation, Sam asked, “What do you mean, ‘with where he is right now?’”

Did Gabriel know what was going on with Castiel? While Gabriel had not been at the bunker for long, he and Cas had ample opportunity to talk. While the idea that Castiel would share with Gabriel before Sam bothered him, he also understood that there were likely experiences among angels that only other angels could understand.

“Castiel has been here on earth living among you for, what, a little less than a decade? That is like a drop of rain falling in the ocean. He has no idea what is of significance to humans,” Gabriel explained, and Sam realized that he’d been thinking just of what Castiel may have gone through over the past couple of months, rather than thinking about the past decade being a small blink in Castiel’s existence.

Sam weighed whether to discuss his concerns about Cas with Gabriel. He didn’t trust Gabriel entirely, but how often did he get the chance to speak with someone who could actually understand, and potentially even translate given Gabriel’s long tenure on Earth among humans?

He tiptoed into the subject, “It always seems like Cas expresses emotions like he’s looking through a microscope at a bug.”

Snorting, Gabriel replied, “That metaphor is spot on.”

Gabriel peered at Sam for a long moment and then appeared to physically unwind, as if he was putting aside one identity to put on another. Sam recognized that Gabriel was trying to communicate that he was open to talking with sincerity - he was offering to put aside his jocular demeanor if Sam wanted him to.

This side of Gabriel was unusual to see. Sam remembered it briefly from the time that Gabriel had decided to take on his brothers and try to stop the apocalypse. 

Gabriel continued, “He may have emotions, but he does not know what they are.”

Sam shook his head in confusion, “He never seemed to have trouble with love or loyalty though. That’s the strange thing. Why did he choose my brother while he looks at other human emotions like they are alien to him?”

“Love and loyalty are programmed into angels. It’s what we were created to do - love and serve our Father. Although I suppose romantic love is a unique flavor that wasn’t necessarily designed for us,” Gabriel added with a smirk, then a shadow passed over his face. “More complex and dark emotions? Those were not meant for angels.”

Sam thought about Lucifer, and how envy consumed him, driving him to betray all that he loved. Envy was a daily emotion for humans - an ugly one, sure, but humans dealt with it daily and moved past it. 

Could it be that Castiel was dealing with a perfectly normal, but new human emotion, with no ability to express it or understand how to act on it?

With that new consideration, and his latest theory about their resident poltergeist dismissed, Sam grabbed the book back out of Gabriel’s hand and held it up to say, “Thanks, Gabe.”

Gabriel leaned away to allow Sam to pass back through the door into the den, then he promptly disappeared. Only later did Sam remember that he never pursued his question about myths being made true by the human imagination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Bad Religion by Frank Ocean.
> 
> This fic has a playlist! If you enjoy music, here are the songs that helped inspire and guide this fanfic: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7jNfMfZcNsuruH6mhpklZW?si=Tn5PrRwuRVWNy08duw-DCA


	5. Let Me Take You On

They spent the next couple days in a similar pattern, one of the Winchesters awake at all times on poltergeist watch. Random activity often followed their dreams, all of it completely harmless so far, but maddening at the same time. Dean rose from a nap with a song from his dream playing from the record player. Cas discovered the refrigerator open with several empty beer bottles scattered across the floor and all of the chips mysteriously disappeared after Sam had a dream about a drunken 1950s party with their grandfather Henry Winchester and the Men of Letters.

It was unclear whether the mundane nature of the activity was because their dreams were stunningly mundane, or if their poltergeist was just unimaginative. Either way, Dean was grateful that angels didn’t have dreams to haunt, because who knows what they would find when one of them woke up. 

Dean rose after several hours of fitful, daytime sleep in a cold bed alone. He made a futile attempt to hold onto the last dream he’d had, but his phone’s alarm had already dispelled it and all he could remember was something about Bobby and Rufus and beer.

While it felt dumb as hell, Sam had suggested they both keep “dream journals,” and Dean knew it was a solid way to narrow down the possibilities. He was sure Sam was writing Victorian novels in a leather bound journal. Meanwhile, Dean just jotted down on a bent yellow legal pad:

“Bobby. Rufus. Beer.”

He blasted AC/DC from his record player and put on his clothes in a stupor until Sam banged on his door, shouting, “I’m trying to fucking sleep, asshole.”

Dean pulled the needle off the record and jerked the door open, yelling to Sam’s retreating back, “That better, princess?”

Sam responded with a one-finger salute, slamming his bedroom door shut behind him.

When the bottle had broken earlier that week, Dean had been excited, exhilarated even. What was better than finding a hunt? A hunt coming to him. He wouldn’t have to be the one to drag Sam and Cas away from the bunker.

But between Sam’s sour and anxious mood over the past several days, sleep deprivation and each of them literally discovering no new clues, the two brothers were both restless and at odds. Clearly a hunt at the bunker was not Sam’s idea of a good time. And it was getting old fast for Dean too, because now he was bored again, while also being frustrated at their lack of progress.

As Dean stepped into the kitchen, his mood lifted because at least there was bacon. Then he noticed Castiel sitting at the table, and just like that even the promise of bacon wasn’t enough. 

“Morning,” Dean greeted him awkwardly.

“Good afternoon, Dean.”

Since the night the bunker hunt started, Castiel had not come to bed with him once. At first, Dean didn’t think a lot of it, figuring that Cas was helping Sam research and eliminate possibilities, checking every little nook and cranny for strange energy, or whatever else angels did on hunts. 

But three days in, it felt awkward and conspicuous, and Dean had no idea how to broach the subject without sounding like an asshat. From the very first days that he and Cas had started hooking up, Dean had never once had to ask Cas outright to sleep with him. Now they were several years in, and he found he didn’t know how. 

He knew that their last night in bed had ended on a prickly note, but goddamn - if Cas was scared off by prickliness, he surely wouldn’t be around anymore.

Opening the refrigerator, Dean considered whether to cook a full breakfast, but he just didn’t feel like making eggs and toast and the full shebang for just him. He decided on a wholesome breakfast of just bacon and beek jerky, so there was only one pan and plate to clean. It was the sensible choice.

“I have been thinking,” Castiel started, his voice a little hoarse at first as if from disuse, “perhaps we should seek out a medium.”

“Not a bad idea.” 

Dean stubbornly stared at the bacon, avoiding Castiel’s eyes as if cooking bacon was the most interesting thing in the world. It seemed to take years longer to cook under his constant attention. Even bacon could be ruined by his awful family. Wonder of wonders.

“I do not believe the bunker is haunted by a ghost or lost soul, but a medium could give us certainty.”

“Right,” Dean mumbled, putting an absurd amount of cured meat on his plate. He thought about scurrying away to another room, but he had no good excuse to leave the room, so he put his plate down and sat at the table across from Castiel. “I’ll call Missouri.” 

“Once we have ruled out restless spirits, perhaps we should consider a conversation with Henry Winchester,” Castiel continued serenely, as if he’d suggested running down the street to the store.

Bacon in his belly and on to the jerky, Dean replied, “And how do you suggest we do that?”

“I will need to return to Heaven.”

“That doesn’t seem like a great plan,” Dean responded, thinking of all the trouble Castiel had caused in heaven and the fact that they were leaderless right now. He halfway envisioned it looking no better than purgatory up there.

“I will discuss it with Sam.”

Dean scowled and rose from the table with a glare to clean his couple of now empty dishes. By the time he turned back around, Castiel was gone and Dean was blessedly, miserably condemned back to boredom.

All of their laundry was clean and ready to be packed into a bag. He’d even stripped all of the sheets off the beds and washed them. He had already wiped any salt and grit off the Impala, carefully buffing out any dings or rough spots, and changed out the tires for winter. 

After making sure the Impala was in tip-top shape and ready for winter, he’d taken apart the Model T just to see how the engine worked. Unfortunately, he’d found it more difficult to put back together, and he was slowly watching YouTube videos on his phone to reassemble it. 

He’d finally fixed the leaky faucet in the hall bathroom, a simple repair he’d been meaning to do forever, but never had time for. And he was pretty sure he was either going to have to start exercising or change his diet if this house arrest lasted much longer. 

He wanted to watch the Princess Bride on tv and re-enact the sword fight in it with the Christmas sword, but no part of the bunker was safe for such activities with Gabriel in it. He would never live it down.

Sighing, he finally dialed Missouri, wanting to reach her before sundown.

“Dean Winchester,” her dreamy voice welcomed him through the phone and he couldn’t help but smile.

“Long time no talk.” 

“I had this strange feeling all day that I would hear from you.”

“Sounds about right,” Dean said with a mirthless laugh. “Are you still down in Lawrence?”

“Lived here all my life. Not likely to move now.” 

“Sam and I need your help. Do you think you can make the drive up to Lebanon?”

“Honey, it would be a pleasure to see you both, but a four hour drive at this time of year with all this snow makes me nervous,” she replied, apologetic. “Even if you came to get me in that wonderful car of yours, that’s a long drive in some touch-and-go weather.”

Nodding, Dean weighed how much value she could provide with her abilities against potentially ruining any religious beliefs she may have had. 

“What if I could arrange for you to be, uh,” he couldn’t think of a good word for it, “teleported here?”

“Dean Winchester,” she said again, but this time scandalized, “are you boys tangled up in something dark?”

He struggled with how to answer that. Maybe yes? But he didn’t think that was the intent of her question. How long had it been since he’d last seen Missouri? Dad was alive. They had never even faced a demon before. 

So how did he explain that he was going to send his angel boyfriend, who he was currently on the outs with, to go fly Missouri to them?

“Missouri, do you believe in angels?” 

After patiently answering questions for about twenty five minutes, Dean finally hammered out a plan with Missouri, who was elated at her special escort for the following morning. He explained the scant clues they had so far about whatever was occupying the bunker, and she rushed him off the call to do some research of her own and pack up her implements for the next day. 

Hanging up the phone, he felt a brief moment of relief before the boredom set in again. In the store room, he pulled out a few boxes of incandescent bulbs, and dragged himself around the bunker, changing all of the dead lights around the house. 

  
  
  


Giving Dean space was difficult, so Castiel set out to find a project to occupy his time and eventually found that in Room 27 of the bunker. Much of the bunker was dark, with heavy, old-world furniture and rich mid-century carpets and curtains, but the Green Room, with a completely glass roof like a courtyard in a home from the middle east or Spain, was airy and full of possibility.

The plants there had been neglected for so long, there were only a few petrified shrivels of leaves left, and all of the dirt was bone dry, cracked and peeling away from the pots and beds. The Men of Letters had used the Green Room to grow herbs, medicinal plants and some edibles that they needed for spells or potions, as well as to provide an ongoing source of food if they’d ever needed to hide in the bunker for an extended period of time.

Taking on the garden through grace alone would take either a single, immense influx of power or a steady expenditure over a long period of time. He could replenish his grace, but it would require rest, which was not a luxury that Castiel often afforded himself. 

Still, the project appealed to him for a number of reasons, not the least of which being that the Winchesters had never given the Green Room a second glance. 

Of course, Castiel could fly anywhere he would like to spend time: the Swiss Alps, the Great Wall, a jungle in Malaysia, the rings of Saturn. Angels were accustomed to long silences, waiting for a need to arise. They had no need to exist on the mortal plane at all. 

There was nothing physical or mental that tied him to the bunker. But he found that he took greater pleasure and delight in the small details of the world as time went on. Not to mention, he felt a need to be near.

Sitting on the ground, he put his hands on the cool tile floor. He asked his being to expand beyond his human body, and he felt the slow fission of his greater self unfold as his wings opened up from his back. 

“What’cha doing?” 

Castiel jumped, losing focus briefly and shattering a terracotta pot, before he recognized the voice. He closed his eyes and continued collecting his grace into a single purpose.

Gabriel had settled into his own odd pattern around the bunker, disappearing for hours only to reappear without warning to make a well-timed joke or help out with a random task. Even Castiel was uncertain where Gabriel went when he was gone - perhaps he went to the aforementioned rings of Saturn. 

“Creating a garden,” Castiel replied, impassive. 

“That’s very Genesis of you.”

“This garden will be quite humble compared to God’s creation,” he grumbled in response, a little sweat collecting on his brow as reintroduced nutrients into the soil of a single, large painted pot. 

“Yeah, I can tell,” Gabriel agreed, eyeing the tiny green nub that pushed up from the oversized pot, unimpressed.

The room burst with wild green, growing dark and damp, and orchids unfurled from every niche in the leaves. A spider monkey darted across the fountain and jumped up, disappearing into the dense vines. 

“Easy peasy.”

“An illusion,” Castiel replied dismissively.

The room returned to the bright, cold catacomb in an instant. “Ah,” Gabriel sighed in understanding, then smiled and said loftily, “‘I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars.’ And all that.”

In the way he said it, Castiel assumed that Gabriel was quoting someone, but he did not know whom. Metatron would have enjoyed talking with Gabriel, although he wasn’t sure if Gabriel would have returned the sentiment. 

“Yes,” Castiel agreed simply.

Much of the illusions or temporary creations that Gabriel peddled were just frames of reality, like a lattice of ice that would evaporate into the air the moment Gabriel took his mind off it. Creating something independent and real was far more difficult. 

He could, of course, ask Gabriel to help and the room would immediately be truly lush and overflowing with life. As an archangel, Gabriel’s grace was like the cosmic forces of a galaxy, and comparatively Castiel’s was like the reactor of a single sun. He was beyond even Castiel’s understanding. 

“Still, you could wipe this out in a few hours,” Gabriel pointed out, as if he was listening to his thoughts. Yes, even Castiel could return the garden to its glory in a few short hours, then spend the next few days in the ether regenerating his grace. But it seemed unwise - it also didn’t appeal to him.

“I do not want to expend too much energy on this project while we are still uncertain if the bunker is safe,” Castiel explained. 

“Probably a good idea.”

They sat in companionable silence, with Castiel not asking for Gabriel’s help and Gabriel not offering it, while Castiel focused on several other pots and planters, slowly restoring the soil. 

After an hour or two, the room now lit by starlight, Castiel withdrew his grace into his body and looked at Gabriel for the first time. Sweat was dried to Castiel’s skin and his breath was puffing fast, creating fog in the cold air. Gabriel sat cross-legged on the ledge of a defunct fountain at the center of the room.

Castiel’s mind pulled away from his work, and he returned to more practical matters. His mercurial brother had walked the Earth for almost two millennia, far longer than Castiel and the Winchesters. He must have encountered a being similar to the one haunting the bunker. 

“Do you have any theories on what broke the bottle of liquor?” Castiel pressed. “I have not felt any foreign presence here.”

Gabriel measured him for a long moment, and Castiel knew then that Gabriel had strong suspicions at the very least, if not outright knowledge.

Finally, Gabriel admitted, “I do, but I am not ready to share them yet.”

Castiel’s expression turned to irritated astonishment. “Why not? Dean and Sam are running themselves ragged trying to figure this out. If you know, you must help them.”

“All in good time, brother,” Gabriel’s countenance was deadly serious, but it also carried a look of… Castiel thought it might be fondness. “There’s still time for all of us to figure this out.”

Pushing up from the ground, Castiel’s eyes flashed with frustration, but Gabriel spoke first, almost gently, “I just have theories, Castiel. Plus Sam and Dean are on the right path. I’d do more harm than good by interfering.”

Feeling protective energy coil up in him like a spring, Castiel hissed, “What do you mean?” 

“I’ll help them when the time is right,” Gabriel replied tensely, responding to Castiel’s aggressive energy like a dog raising his hackles. 

“Why do you get to decide when the time is right? If you are playing games with them again, I will not allow it.”

He’d barely finished enunciating the final consonant when Gabriel flung his grace out wide, floating to his feet and unfurling six magnificent wings that stretched beyond one plane to the next. Castiel staggered, shielding himself from Gabriel’s light with both his body and immortal being. 

“ANGEL OF THURSDAY, do not forget I am the left hand of the most high, steward of souls yet to be, fifth of the eternal watch, the mighty herald, keeper of holiness!” 

Righteous anger burned against his being, and he shuddered under its pressure. Gabriel listed his epitaphs with both his human and celestial voice, booming through the room and shaking the glass.

The force bore Castiel down to the ground, his forehead nearly meeting the ground in a parody of a bow. Gabriel’s presence washed over him, threatening to expand until there was no room for him here at all. As it ground him down, he gained a rare glimpse at his brother’s soul. 

There was fear and sadness, resignation, and perhaps a small flicker of hope. There was darkness, but it was focused inward, a greater threat to its bearer than to others. Each emotion and intention touched him like a brand, searing and hot. 

Was Gabriel trying to show him something? He was uncertain if the glimpse was accidental or intentional. 

“You cannot harm me,” his voice boomed, then faded back to his earthly voice, “although you need not try.”

Gabriel shut it off suddenly like slamming a door closed, and Castiel jerked back his probing thoughts at the last minute, stung. Castiel rose slowly to his feet, not looking away from Gabriel’s eyes. They both stood still for several long seconds, surprise reflected in each other’s eyes at how much power had accumulated in the room before it dissipated. 

“I’m not here to hurt them, Cas.”

“I saw,” Castiel replied plainly. “I am sorry for my doubt.”

Gabriel just shrugged, “Can’t say it’s not a little bit deserved. I enjoy messing with them. Especially your main squeeze, who just makes it way too easy.” 

Then he opened a hand and condensation beaded up on the glass as if it was horribly hot and humid outside instead of frigid. Rain began to drop from the ceiling, thick and slow like a rainforest. Gabriel’s warm, golden eyes held an apology. 

As the rain touched him, Castiel could tell that unlike so many of Gabriel’s parlor tricks, this moisture was real instead of an illusion. 

  
  
  


Sam woke around midnight and reached straight for the notebook on his bedside stand. He scribbled down the remnants of his dream. He knew he’d travelled through many dreams over the past several hours, but he could only remember the final one.

It involved a truly terrible family gathering at the Campbell house, where Dean had brought Castiel home to meet his grandparents for reasons that would only make sense in dreams. Everyone got roaring drunk on cheap wine, until they discovered that Deanna was possessed by a demon and Sam put his hand on her, just like he used to, and tried to draw the demon out over and over again, but it wouldn’t work.

Once he got the dream down on paper, he stumbled out of his bedroom, his circadian rhythms fucked to hell. By that point, Dean was sacked out in the den, a blanket over him, while a marathon of Project Runway played. Sam had never seen Dean watch Project Runway before - he definitely enjoyed some good reality tv, but Dean’s tastes veered toward trashier shows, like Jersey Shore or the Bachelor.

Pushing Dean’s feet off, Sam flopped down beside him saying, “Project Runway, huh?” 

Dean seemed as if he couldn’t be bothered to tear his eyes away from a contestant frantically running fabric through a sewing machine. “Yeah, it was on when I came in here.”

“Like, as in the poltergeist turned it to Project Runway?”

“Yeah, I dreamed about drinking beer with Bobby earlier,” Dean shrugged. “It’s a marathon. The judge is hot and I’m learning about fashion.”

Project Runway was Bobby’s secret favorite show. Sam felt comforted by the strange reminder of Bobby, but also disturbed that some being was mimicking their loved ones in their dreams. 

“Tim Gunn is hot, or Heidi Klum is hot?” Sam asked, almost with sincerity because it seemed like a legitimate question given that his brother was in a same-sex relationship. Or well, kind of. 

“I don’t know what you just said, but I’ll assume you were being an ass.”

Together, they watched the designers present to the judges, trading occasional comments between them like “says the dude wearing soccer socks” and “those earrings would be a helpful hunting accessory.”

When the judges eliminated one of the contestants, Dean yelled “Robbed!” and threw multiple jerky wrappers at the tv. Sam just said, “Dude, you need to eat better.”

The credits rolled and the commercials started, and Dean pressed mute, then turned to face Sam.

“Missouri is coming tomorrow.”

“Really?” Sam gazed at Dean, impressed.

“Don’t get too excited. It was Cas’ idea,” Dean grumbled. 

And then Castiel was there, out of nowhere, as if he’d been standing in a dark corner the entire time watching Dean binge shitty reality tv in a tired stupor. Both of them jumped. 

“I thought she could rule out certain creatures,” Cas said. 

“When is she coming?” Sam asked.

“Whenever Cas goes to get her.” Dean tilted his head back on the arm of the couch lazily, looking over his shoulder at Castiel. “Oh yeah, you have to go get Missouri and bring her here.”

“I could go fetch her,” Gabriel’s voice likewise appeared from nowhere, and suddenly it was a big family meeting. “I’ve always had a thing for psychics. There’s something sexy about someone knowing what you want before you even want it.”

“No,” Dean lurched up from the couch to glare at Gabriel. “She watched us grow up. I don’t need to ever think about Missouri in that way, fuck you very much. But also, she’s already pretty blown away by the prospect of Castiel picking her up tomorrow. If an angel celebrity shows up tomorrow, you’re gonna spend the entire afternoon on her couch answering questions instead of here communing with the dead.”

“She was a family friend?” Castiel asked thoughtfully.

Sam smiled. “Yeah. She helped Dad on cases sometimes.” He felt buoyed by the progress, any progress at all really, hopeful that they might finally get some new clues to put an end to this awful slog. “I guess she didn’t know angels were a real thing?”

“Her reaction was just about as pure and adorable as yours was when we found out angels existed,” Dean replied, kicking Sam in the calf with one foot. “I didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth. At least it’ll be Cas.”

Together, Dean and Sam glanced over at Castiel, who looked rumpled in his trenchcoat and even a little bit dirty, oddly enough.

Sam shrugged, “Maybe she’s into tax accountants?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Handjobs for the Holidays by Broken Social Scene.
> 
> This fic has a playlist! If you enjoy music, here are the songs that helped inspire and guide this fanfic: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7jNfMfZcNsuruH6mhpklZW?si=Tn5PrRwuRVWNy08duw-DCA


	6. Tell Me Who You're Loyal To

Dean headed off to take a cat nap before Missouri’s visit, determined to get in a little rest before sunrise. With energy to spare, Sam bundled up in insulated tights, a few layers of shirts and pulled a hat over his hair for a run. 

He stepped out of the bunker into cool morning light and put his earbuds in his ears. Desperate for a respite from the strained energy of the bunker, he placed his feet carefully.

For the first half mile, Sam zoned completely out, focused solely on the music and placing his feet on the yellow lines down the middle of the road, where there was little ice to worry about. He allowed his mind to drift back to the problem at hand, but his thoughts felt crisp and less burdened in the stark light of the sun starting to flash through bare trees.

They had so little to go on. The only theme uniting it all was dreams about drinking and revelry. 

Maybe it was something like the Shojo, attached somehow to liquor itself, but also super-powered enough to walk incorporeal among dreams like a Djinn. Come to think of it, a Djinn wasn’t a bad idea, but forcing them to watch Project Runway and emptying their beer stash hardly seemed like it could cause enough fear to feed a Djinn.

He drifted to Castiel’s comment about Saturnalia. It seemed like months ago that Castiel was suggesting ordering mince pies on Amazon. Maybe it was some ancient ghost or being that was forcing them to relive a pagan tradition.

If only there was some historied being in their house that had a first-hand knowledge of gods and historical figures. Gabriel gleefully shared amusing trivia, but still had yet to weigh in on anything related to the hunt unless directly asked. 

He was surprisingly bothered by it. Why did he think Gabriel would help them? It was unlike him to expect more from others anymore. 

The sun broke from the trees and beamed off the snow, blinding him. He turned right down Maple Street and away from the glare. 

Maybe he was actually starting to like Gabriel. He was interesting and funny, luckily more often at Dean’s expense than Sam’s. Perhaps, Gabriel was even good, but it didn’t matter, because Sam couldn’t trust him. He was obviously hiding something, whether the secret was nefarious or not.

Sam’s awareness prickled up as he heard footfalls behind him, like another jogger was about to lap him. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he felt a cold shiver shoot down through his spine. He had never once seen anyone else running in Lebanon. The town was mostly old folks - farmers and tractor mechanics and little general store owners.

Thoughts of the bunker and Gabriel scattered straight out of his mind as he reached for his gun, preparing to make an abrupt turn and get a look at whatever was following him. But apparently the fucker was fast, because he was rolling on the ground grappling with the creature before he could finish the thought. 

He slid across icy pavement and into the snow bank while fingers clawed at his body, climbing up toward his neck. Winded from hitting the ground so hard, Sam flailed and kicked against his attacker in a panic, which responded with an inhuman growl. Prying the hands away, he calmed himself and got a good look at what he was facing: some kind of zombie, but not like one he’d seen before. 

It was emaciated, no muscle, just rotting skin covering bones, with a sagging skeletal face and empty, dark eye sockets. 

It bit his shoulder as it scrambled up his body, but its teeth couldn’t break through his layers of thick shirts and sweatshirts. It did hurt like a mother fucker though, and Sam knew it would leave a hell of a bruise. Sam rammed it in the face with the heel of his palm, kicking hard at the same time to throw it away from him.

His gun was in his hand almost instantly, and he unloaded several rounds into it’s chest and head. Bits of flesh and bone chipped away, and half of its skull blew clean off into the snow, but it appeared that bullets only stunned it.

Damn. 

Think, Sam, think.

Sam was in a neighborhood. It was the country, so the yards were large, flat plots and there were only a handful of homes on this street, but it was a neighborhood. 

He ran off beside the nearest house as the not-zombie regained its bearings. His legs powered through the soft, collapsing snow as he rounded the corner home into the backyard. 

No shed in this yard. 

He heard a howl behind him as the zombie started to run again, and his eyes landed on a wood shack behind the neighboring backyard. 

He took off, vaulting a four foot chain link fence, and thanked God that the good people from bumfuck Kansas never even thought to lock up their tool sheds as he swung the door wide.

The first thing he got his hands was a rusty hoe. It’d have to do because the creature was on him again, slamming into him and tumbling them both down hard on a push lawnmower. He had to grapple with it hand to hand again for several seconds before he could get the wooden handle of the hoe firmly between them and use it to lever the creature off.

The not-zombie rattled like it would fall apart as it banged into a shelf, but it was more solid than it looked. Pesticides and a big gas can shook and fell off the shelf, and the smell of gasoline filled the air.

Sam swung the hoe at its chest and missed as the creature lunged forward, but he did catch it’s arm, pinning it against the wall and chopping the thin appendage clean off at the bicep. 

Watching the bones clack lifelessly to the floor, Sam smiled as he realized how this game was played.

“Alright, motherfucker. Let’s go,” Sam roared, kicking the creature again, and aiming his hoe, hacking off the creature’s other arm. 

Sam may have figured out a strategy, but it was still hard work. He was hot and sweating in his layers, and his arms were aching as he hacked away bits while the creature tried to rip his neck out by the teeth. It was strong as hell, and nothing seemed like a mortal blow. 

With frustration, Sam switched up his grip and swung the flat edge of the hoe like a golf club at the creature’s legs, knocking a knee cap across the room. The not-zombie hit the floor, missing most of two arms and half a leg, and that was when Sam glimpsed a wood axe hanging on the back of the door. He stalked across the room, in less of a hurry now that the creature was having to pull it’s torso across the floor pushing a single leg like an inchworm.

Finally he lopped the creature’s head off, then he stared down on it in consternation while it continued to screech and wriggle around. 

How did he kill this damn thing? 

He kicked the head away to give himself time to consider. The shed was in shambles: the lawn mower dented in, spades and shattered pots scattered around, and there was a steadily growing pool of gasoline on the floor. Not to mention, the partially-decomposed body parts and gristle strewn all around. A piece of greenish flesh was clinging to the window. Ew.

He could try smashing the head in with his foot, but it wouldn’t fix the mess in the tool shed.

Scrabbling through some drawers, he found a box of matches as the zombie used it’s gray tongue to scoot across the floor toward him, still moaning. Then he stomped on the head, the skull shattered but the brain seemed to ooze out around his tennis shoe and Sam gagged, barely keeping himself from throwing up. 

“Get it together, Sam,” he told himself and ran outside, pulling the hood of his sweatshirt over his hat as he did to conceal his face.

He peered around the neighborhood wondering if anyone was watching. This was their home. He wasn’t eager to have the townsfolk trooping down to the bunker with shotguns and pitchforks like they were storming Frankenstein’s castle. But there wasn’t much he could do now. 

There were no cars in the nearby drives and no faces peering at him from the windows, so he would just have to hope. Thank god for farmers and their early hours. 

He lit the match and tossed it into the shed. 

Once he was sure the shed would burn down, he took off running again, making record time as he imagined the sounds of police sirens behind him. Finally, Sam hurtled through the entrance to the bunker and slammed the door behind him

“Sam?”

Sam panted, pausing to catch his breath as Castiel popped his head into the foyer in concern.

“I was attacked,” Sam wheezed breathlessly. Cas was there instantly, hands on his shoulders checking him for wounds, but Sam waved him away. “No, no. I’m fine. I’m not hurt. But get Dean up.”

  
  
  


The typical dreams of drinking and revelry took a decidedly wicked turn for Dean during his nap. This time, Charlie called him up and asked him to meet her in Sedona to hunt down a skinwalker killing costumed nerds at some video game conference. He arrived at the conference with Castiel in tow, and Charlie met them in the lobby, dressed up in some studded leather low cut, short skirt getup. When he turned around Castiel was suddenly in head to toe green armor with false wings attached. In the dream, it all made sense.

They hunted the skinwalker, ending it in a blaze of gross, skin-melting glory, and proceeded to get roaring drunk at the hotel bar. That’s when things got weird. Charlie whispered with her lips right against Dean’s ear that she might be about the whole angel thing given that they were non-binary anyhow. Together, they seduced the green-armored angel, who was confused but only too willing.

Stumbling back to the hotel room, they stripped off Castiel’s armor and worshipped him. Right before Dean woke up, he had his hand wrapped around Castiel’s throat and his cock up his ass, whispering filthy things in his ear while Charlie bit down on Cas’ nipple. 

Castiel was groaning, “Dean.  _ Dean _ .” when it melted into, “Dean.  _ Dean _ , you need to wake up.”

His eyes flew open. He jerked his arm away from Castiel’s hand, where it was shaking him with more and more urgency, and pulled the covers up all the way to his chin in embarrassment. 

“Damn, Cas. What?” He bit out defensively, trying to not think about what dream Dean had been about to do to dream Castiel with Charlie as his wanton side kick.

Castiel recoiled, his eyes becoming withdrawn as he took a physical step back. Dean felt awful and opened his mouth to take back his touchiness. Here they were in some sort of fight, one which Dean didn’t even remember having, and he was taking out a dream on Cas.

But Cas spoke first, and Dean forgot all about apologizing.

“Sam was attacked. You need to come.”

  
  
  


Sam headed straight down the stairs toward the locker rooms, stripping off layers as he went and slowly exposing his skin to cool air. The sweat on his body compounded the hot/cold sensation and he was soon covered in chill bumps.

When he pushed open the heavy metal door to the locker room, Gabriel met him at the entrance, looking genuinely concerned. Sam was surprisingly gratified in return.

“What happened?”

“Some kind of reanimated asshole skeleton chased me down in broad daylight,” Sam groused, pulling off his long-sleeve undershirt and getting his first look at a circle of red welted teeth marks surrounded by a wicked purple bruise. Gabriel hissed in sympathy. 

Stripped down to just the insulated leggings he wore as a base layer, he threw the rest of the clothes into the drum of the washer. He looked in the mirror and saw other bruises and bites too, although none as bad as the first, and raised scratch marks on his neck. 

“Let me-“ Gabriel extended his hand toward Sam’s shoulder. Still keyed up, Sam instinctively dodged.

“I’m fine. Just bruised up.”

“Humor me,” Gabriel replied forcefully, and their eyes met in a stubborn mutual glare. 

Behind them, they heard footsteps thundering down the stairs and Dean shouted, “Sam!”

“I’m here,” Sam looked away from Gabriel to say. “I’m fine.” Dean’s jaw dropped as it looked at Sam’s battered torso. 

Menacingly, Gabriel insisted again, “It puts the lotion on it’s skin or else -”

“ **_Fine_ ** .” Sam ground out and held his hand out, palm up.

Gabriel took his arm almost gently at the wrist, his thumb right over Sam’s pulse, and Sam suddenly felt supremely uncomfortable with Dean and Castiel looking on. Refusing to look away, he held Gabriel’s eyes and a little zing of energy passed through him, although he wasn’t certain if it was Gabriel’s grace or just his body reacting to the touch. 

The entire exchange lasted so little time there was no way anyone thought anything of it. Except Sam, who swallowed as he pulled his wrist away from Gabriel’s grasp, cursing himself for always choosing the absolute worst people to find interesting.

“What the hell happened?” Dean asked. 

Sam sat down on a bench and started unlacing his shoes as he described the attack. He outlined the specific steps he had to take to kill the creature, as well as his newfound anxiety about the good people of Lebanon, KS calling the Feds on them.

Once he’d finished, Castiel spoke first, a bit apologetically, “I have to go get Missouri.”

Honestly, Sam completely forgot, but once Castiel said it, he was excited again that maybe soon they’d have some answers. 

“Oh yeah,” Dean shook his head, clearly he forgot as well. “Yeah, Cas, you go on and I can meet you up in the Great Room in a few minutes. Sam, you can take your time getting cleaned up. We’ll get her all setup.”

After Castiel disappeared, Sam threw his tennis shoes into a shower stall and started running hot water over them, goo and gristle circling the drain. 

As they continued talking, Gabriel became more quiet and Sam couldn’t help but glance at him as Dean and Sam tossed around theories.

Earlier Gabriel’s expression had been one of open concern, but now he was guarded again and Sam was certain he knew something. He was determined to dig the truth out of him. 

“Do you think all this is related?” Dean asked. “Random zombie attacks and dreams about getting blackout drunk don’t seem like they have much in common.”

“I don’t know,” Sam, having finally come down off his adrenaline high, was almost shivering now in the cool air. “Seems like a whole lot of activity for the middle of nowhere Kansas.”

“Right,” Dean murmured darkly.

  
  
  


Castiel arrived outside of Missouri’s front door, as he had learned humans prefered, and knocked on the door.

She opened the door and glanced him up and down with a look of confusion. He explained, “Hello, Missouri. I am Castiel. The Winchesters sent me.” 

Missouri seemed amused when she replied, “Come in, Castiel. I’m almost ready.”

She stepped aside to let him pass through the doorway and offered him a cup of earl gray tea. He politely declined. Puttering around her kitchen in no particular hurry, she put a few dishes in the dishwasher and finished a half-eaten piece of toast. He knew morning beverages were important to humans given how Dean moaned in the morning when he was forced to skip coffee, so he stood by waiting for her to finish.

“Castiel, I have been thinking all night about what questions to ask you, and all the ones I’ve come up with still seem foolish,” she said as she sat down at the table and took slow sips to finish her tea. 

“Based on Dean and Sam’s response, I ask many questions that humans consider foolish,” Castiel offered reassuringly, doubting that there was a question she could ask that would shock or upset him.

She set her floral pink tea cup down in a matching saucer and said, “You’re not what I expected from an angel.”

“I am unable to show you my true form without damaging you,” Castiel replied, remembering a time when he’d met another psychic and burned her eyes out. Though at the time he’d felt nothing because, after all, he’d tried to warn her, he felt a wave of guilt about it now.

“So why is an angel running errands for the Winchester boys?”

Castiel considered the question for a long moment. There were many ways to answer it.

It occurred to him that it was silly, when you really thought about it, for an angel of the Lord to be flying a human psychic to and from Lebanon, KS because she was afraid to drive in the snow. 

He wanted to tell her that the Winchesters were his family, and it appeared that was what you did for family. But while it felt honest, it also felt painful to say now that his place in that family was uncertain. 

Watching him struggle for an answer, Missouri took pity on him, “Oh honey. I’m just making conversation.”

Castiel looked down at the tatters of tea leaves that floated in the dregs at the bottom of her tea cup.

“I find your question… complicated to answer at this moment.”

“I never expected you to be so, well, human,” Missouri said gently. Castiel felt uncomfortable at the description, because he felt between two natures, two worlds. He was not sure what exactly he was anymore. 

“We should go. They will be waiting,” Castiel finally said, now that she was done with her tea and chores.

She nodded and he put his hand on her shoulder.

In the Great Room of the bunker, Dean had just started kindling a fire when they arrived. Missouri spun around to take in the twinkling lights and twisting garland decorating the room and said, impressed, “This is not what I expected.”

Dean pushed up off one knee and welcomed her warmly.

“Missouri! Thanks for coming.” 

“Anything for John’s boys,” She returned his brief hug, then she waved at Cas. “Plus, it gave me the chance to meet your friend here.”

Castiel watched them exchange small talk and catch up on almost a decade’s worth of life. Missouri had not seen Dean since their father had died, and she expressed her condolences. He knew it was an old and sometimes tender wound, but Dean had closed the door on that chapter of his life. Small talk was uncomfortable for Dean - it was something they shared in common. Dean was eager to get back to the practical realities, and Castiel could tell he was still thrown by Sam’s attack.

Dean almost visibly relaxed when Missouri asked them why they needed her.

“Long story short, we’ve had some activity going on - broken bottles, TVs mysteriously turned on, things rummaged through - and Sam and I have both been having dreams. But this place is warded out the wazoo against most supernatural beings.”

They were interrupted as Sam and Gabriel entered the room. Sam had changed into jeans and a sweater, and thanks to Gabriel, he looked good as new. 

As Castiel watched, Sam glanced briefly at Gabriel before he continued past him and went to hug Missouri, just as Dean did, and he was hit suddenly with realization. Both were his brothers, and while he felt as though he knew Sam better in spite of the bond he shared with Gabriel through the host of heaven, he could see instantly that some tentative friendship was growing between them. 

With concern, he thought back to his encounter with Gabriel in the Green Room. The archangel was obviously hiding something, and though he no longer worried that his brother had any sinister intent, some secrets could be harmful even if they are kept with the best intent. No one knew that better than Castiel.

As Sam hugged Missouri and exchanged small talk, just as Dean had done, Missouri finally interrupted him to ask, “And who is this?” She waved at Gabriel as if the Winchester brothers were being rude. 

“Uhh,” Dean’s mouth opened and closed a few times unhelpfully. 

“That’s Gabe,” Sam said simply. “He’s just visiting.”

Castiel’s eyes twitched over to the other angel. Gabriel stood in quixotic silence, his mouth twitching into a little smirk. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,  _ Gabe _ ,” Missouri addressed him. “It is unusual for me to be surprised anymore. I did not foresee meeting two angels today.”

“Our kind tends to be like that. We like dramatic grand entrances,” Gabriel responded while Dean glared at him from behind Missouri, as if to say ‘be nice.’

“And yet, you just walked through the door,” Missouri pointed out.

Gabriel said nothing, but his eyes sparkled with something a little predatory.

“Welp,” Dean cut in, “let’s get down to it. What do you need from us, Missouri?”

“I’ll need some space from both of them to sense other presences in the house. You both really crowd out any lesser energies in the house.”

Castiel realized he had never considered how a psychic might feel his presence. He was reluctant to leave - it seemed as though he’d spent so little time on this plane of late. Dean had always been like an anchor to him on Earth, giving him a sense of purpose and place. When he was at the bunker, especially when they were researching for the hunt or even decorating the house, they fell into normal patterns even if some of the trappings were different. But in the ether, he felt adrift.

Gabriel disappeared, and after a moment of hesitation, Castiel left too, tucking himself into the celestial plane of the bunker. 

  
  
  


Once the angels were gone, Missouri turned back to eye the Winchesters. 

“Should I take it as some kind of portent that the angel Gabriel is in your house?”

“No,” Dean snorted, “Gabe isn’t doing much of God’s smiting or letter-carrying anymore. He is just a holy pain in the ass.”

Missouri leaned in and smacked his arm, “Dean Winchester. You watch your language. I never much believed in lightning bolts coming down from heaven, but I’m changing my perspective.”

Dean considered telling her that there really wasn’t anyone on watch up there anymore to monitor for blasphemy, but he figured he’d leave some of her beliefs alone. They all sat down after Sam asked Missouri if she wanted any water or coffee and she declined. 

Together, the two brothers recounted the entire story, including the attack that morning. They were still uncertain if the two were related, but the two brothers were also cogitating on the symptoms too, trying to diagnose the issue. Sometimes retelling the story helped you see the problem in new ways.

Finally, Missouri pulled out some bundled herbs from her purse and she began smoke cleansing each room, while extending her senses to discover any lost souls. They walked throughout the Great Room and the mezzanine, then the command center and the study, before they travelled back to the hallway and started methodically touring all 32 rooms in the bunker. 

As if they were simply providing a grand tour, Sam and Dean followed along, telling her the purpose of each room and guiding her around the house. Many of the rooms sat dusty and dim the way they had for decades, no use to the Winchesters in their decidedly non-Men of Letters lifestyle. 

Room 25, the root cellar, had a few crates of dusty, unfilled wine bottles and what looked like a petrified sweet potato rolled off to one corner, but otherwise just provided a home for a couple of spiders. The nearby furnace room had a small corner window letting in light, illuminating dust motes and little else. The old coal-burning furnace reminded Dean of one of his Christmas favorites, Home Alone, and he resolved to keep an eye out for it in the channel guide over the next couple of weeks. 

Both of the boys were surprised to see little signs of life among all the other dead things in Room 27, the Green Room. With no particular talent at gardening or expectation that they would be able to regularly care for plants, the Winchester had ignored the room. Now, a sheen of warm moisture pressed up against the glass roof, and the room had a fresh, springy smell instead of being stale. 

“So our poltergeist is also resurrecting the Green Room then?” Sam mused out loud, crouching by a large blue pot. 

Missouri smiled mysteriously, “This particular little miracle doesn’t have any ghostly touches on it. Before today, I would have been stumped, but the room is almost glowing with energy similar to your two angelic friends.”

“Huh,” Sam and Dean responded, almost together, their eyes meeting.

Sure, Gabriel could be up to something, but it just didn’t seem like a Gabriel move. If Gabriel had taken on the Green Room, it’d be full up to the gills with venus flytraps and erotic statuaries, with troops of piranha fish in the fountain or something. The sweet little green tendrils poking out of just a few pots and planters seemed a lot more like Castiel, who would take joy in the beauty of nature’s process.

Dean felt a little pang looking at them, wondering for the first time where Cas had been spending his time the last several nights. Recalling the day before when Castiel had appeared in the den with dirt under his fingernails and smudged on his jacket, Dean felt a surge of affection alongside an overwhelming urge to put an end to the detente between them. 

As they left the room, Missouri gave him a strange look and then a little smile. Dean shoved his thoughts away, feeling wide open as he remembered that projecting strong emotions around a psychic could be a bad idea. 

They went through even the most obscure rooms. Room 32, the room Dean had divvied up for Gabriel, sat dusty and untouched, an old unmade mattress on a brass frame. Missouri eyed them when they went down into the devil’s trap room and pressed her lips together, but she merely waved around smoke in silence. The weapon room and shooting range also felt somehow embarrassing. The bunker was definitely a strange home to show to old family friends.

The hardest room was the one Dean thought of as Charlie’s room. It had been where she stayed when she visited, and Dean had closed it off as it was, with a few of Charlie’s things here and there. The dream from earlier came back to him, and he had a flash of Charlie and Cas’ naked skin. He clawed the thought away with embarrassment, hoping Missouri hadn’t picked up on it. 

Both Sam and Dean had to have been projecting strong feelings while she cleansed the room, because she touched a hand to each of their shoulders and simply said, “There’s a strong imprint of love in this room, for both of you.” 

Dean cleared his throat and turned away. “That’s the grand tour, then. Should we regroup back in the Great Room?” 

When they returned, Gabriel was already sitting at the table waiting on them, but Castiel hadn’t returned. 

“We ready to salt and burn a ghoulie, boys?” Gabriel greeted them.

“I’m sorry,” Missouri addressed them all as she sat down. “I didn’t sense even the smallest traces of spirits here. This place is like a black box. I honestly haven’t been in many places, especially this old, that has so little spiritual energy.”

Dean sighed long and hard, “It was a long shot anyway.” 

“I can really only sense human souls, or souls that used to be human,” Missouri said gently, then waved a hand at Gabriel. “You, for instance, are like an empty space in my third eye unless you are standing right in front of me. A very large empty space.”

Gabriel said nothing, he just gazed thoughtfully in return. Sam stood up and stalked out of the room wordlessly.

“He’s on edge,” Dean explained. “We’re both really grateful to you for coming out here.”

“He’s very uneasy,” Missouri acknowledged. “This place means a lot to him. That boy never really had a home like you did.”

Dean glanced at the doorway after Sam. He wished he could solve the issue for Sam - figure out the solution. Get their home back to normal. He felt like maybe he had wished this poltergeist on them. 

While he was glad to not be in shitty hotel rooms anymore, home to Dean was the Impala and Sam and Cas, not the bunker. And after just a couple of days here, he was stir crazy and ready to get back out on the road. 

He startled when Missouri’s hand covered his. She said very low, just for him, “I am very happy for you, Dean. I never saw companionship in your future, and now I know why I couldn’t see it.”

Dean gaped and turned a deep shade of red. Damn him and his wandering mind in the Green Room. Out of the corner of his eyes, he glanced at Gabriel, who was leaning back in his chair whistling a little. 

“Thank you,” Dean replied, gruffly, feeling like a simple acknowledgement would get them past the moment faster than a denial. He slid his hand away and stood up from the table, clearing his throat. 

It was just a karma thing that Castiel reappeared in the room right then, and Dean walked off to the corner of the room like he was suddenly very interested in a book. 

He heard Castiel ask, “Did you discover any ghosts?”

“Nope, we’ve got a clean bill of health,” Gabriel answered. 

Sam and Dean gathered to pay Missouri and say their goodbyes, with Missouri telling them not to wait so long again before reaching out next time. Then Castiel touched her shoulder and they disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from LOYALTY.FEAT.RIHANNA. by Kendrick Lamar
> 
> This fic has a playlist! If you enjoy music, here are the songs that helped inspire and guide this fanfic: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7jNfMfZcNsuruH6mhpklZW?si=Tn5PrRwuRVWNy08duw-DCA


	7. And In The Morning I'll Be Back At Your Feet

After a panicked phone call from Jody, Dean rushed out the door and made record time to Sioux Falls. It poured rain the entire way, but Dean responded to Jody’s urgency seriously, given her usually unflappable demeanour. All she said was that Claire was acting strange, and she was worried that she had gotten into some trouble.

When he pulled up, the house was dark and the hair stood up on the back of his neck as he slowed the car. 

He killed the engine a few houses down, flipping off the lights while considering the house. Jody could just be out. Hell, they could be in a back room with the front lights out. But fear creeped down his spine like fingers and he knew something was wrong. 

Wanting his hands free, Dean scuttled out of the car without an umbrella, putting hands on his gun and his blade to make sure they were in place as he strode over to the house. Instead of going straight to the door, he glanced in a couple of windows, seeing no movement, nothing.

He slipped around to the back, hoping that if Jody was home, she wouldn’t shoot him. He found the back door unlocked and ajar.

Pushing it open, he called out, “Jody? Claire? It’s Dean.”

There was no response, but he did hear a scuffle of shoes. Quick stepping toward the sound with his gun cradled in one palm and the finger of his other hand on the trigger, he passed into the living room. He startled when a flash of lightning illuminated the room, revealing a figure in the darkened entryway to the dining room. 

Thunder followed, rattling the windows, and he waited for it to pass before saying, “Alex, where are Jody and Claire?”

Alex merely responded with laughter, and Dean swiftly traded his gun for his angel blade. Sulfur clouded the air.

“Where are they?”

Once he was close enough, he could see that Alex’s eyes were deep black and her teeth shone in the light as she smiled. He had stepped almost within reach when the demon turned suddenly and hurdled out the window, ripping Alex’s arms and hands as it threw itself out past the bushes into the yard. 

With a shout, Dean shot out the front door and chased the demon through the backyard and off into the woods beyond. With his longer gait, he caught up and tackled the demon, rolling a few times through the mud. 

Holding the blade to the demon’s throat, he growled, “Where are they?”

Still laughing, it said, “Let me go and I’ll show you.”

Dean jerked it up by the arm, blood streaming down Alex’s arms under the rain and onto his hand. “You’ll show me, but I’m not letting you go.”

“You can’t stop me,” the demon hissed, then threw back Alex’s head and a black cloud of smoke streamed out of her mouth and flew off into the dark.

“Goddamn it,” Dean shouted. He sprinted off toward the smoke, but Alex’s weight collapsing against his chest stopped him and he eased her down onto the ground. Putting his fingers up to her neck, he repeated, “Alex,” several times before he determined conclusively she had no pulse. 

With a sigh, he set her down on the ground and stalked off to look for the living. Shouting Jody and Claire’s names, he stumbled through a creek, water streaming over into his boots. Finally, blessedly, he heard a response.

“Dean!” 

His ears perked up and he went silent to listen as he heard Jody’s voice over the quaking trees. Yelling back, he sprinted toward the sound and what he realized was the glare of a flashlight through the rain. 

He barreled in so fast and blind, he basically tripped right into her. They both inhaled sharply and Jody’s hands came to his shoulders to steady him. 

“Dean, thank God,” she said breathlessly.

“Jody, I’m sorry, but Alex is dead.”

“I know. I saw the demon break her neck,” Jody’s tone was pained, but she was a cop, which meant she could firmly compartmentalize in an emergency no matter the level of trauma. “Where is Castiel?”

Jody’s face fell, and Dean recognized something had to be very wrong for Jody to be counting on Cas’ powers.

“I don’t know. I prayed to him when you called, but he hasn’t responded. Where’s Claire?”

“She ran off this way - I followed her. It seemed like she was being chased by something.”

“What kind of thing?”

“I don’t know. Only she could see it. It was invisible to me, I guess.”

Dean’s stomach dropped right out. “Shit. Was the air cold? Did you smell sulfur?”

“Yes. What is it, Dean?”

“It sounds like a hell hound. She must have made a deal.”

He could see her shock and fear by the whites of her eyes in the near-dark. Before she could answer, a low, disembodied voice interrupted them and they both made stabby motions in its direction, hitting air.

“Clair made a crossroads deal?”

Clutching her chest, Jody sighed, “Thank god you’re here, Cas.”

“Shit, Cas,” Dean grumbled at the same time, then he gripped Castiel’s forearm tight for a moment, trying to project reassurance.

“I don’t know where she is, Cas. Can you help us find her?” Jody asked.

“I can,” Castiel responded then stalked off into the dark with Dean and Jody jogging to keep up.

They stumbled through the darkness, soaked, until they came out through the copse and into a park. A few lights illuminated a playground: just a few swings and a slide over pebbles. 

Castiel continued along the perimeter of the playground into a dimmer area, and that’s when Dean saw her body. She had long, deep scratches down both legs, ripping her  jeans, which were dark with blood.

“Oh my god, Claire,” Jody clapped a hand to her mouth and ran over. Dean hung back, feeling sick, as Castiel dropped down to one knee in the soggy grass beside her.

“She is still alive,” he said, surprising Dean, and he reached out a hand toward her, presumably to heal her. Before he reached her forehead, Claire’s hand shot up and grabbed his, stopping it midair. 

Her eyes popped open, black and wide. She smiled.

Dean shouted, “Cas!” and broke into a dead run toward them.

Before Dean could reach them, Claire flung Castiel several feet away. He hit the grass with a squelch. 

Dean scrambled between the two of them, angel blade ready. His eyes flicked to Jody, hoping they could distract Claire together and maybe Cas could exorcise her, but then he noticed that Jody was also looking at him with black eyes.

It was some sort of trap. Shit.

Cas must not have realized, because he flew to her side again, pressing a hand to Claire’s forehead to exorcise her. Before Dean could react, Jody slammed an angel blade into his back.

Castiel fell in a flash of bright light, even as the demon burned out of Claire. Dean went limp, dropping to his knees.

Ill with horror and pain, Dean felt himself disassociate and he traveled beyond and above his body. Jody advanced toward his body below, but he just travelled farther away. 

Then he was blinking his eyes, tears in them, as he sat up in his bed.

He reached over to feel Cas still there and alive. But Cas was gone.

“Cas,” he called quietly, not even consciously recognizing he was praying until Castiel was there, looking confused and concerned. The two separate realities reassembled as he looked at Castiel’s face.

“Hey - I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pray or whatever.”

His gaze softening immeasurably, Castiel sat down on the edge of the bed, “Dean, what happened?”

“It was just a dream. Fucking dreams,” Dean groused. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called you.”

Putting his hand on Dean’s bare shoulder, Cas replied, “You can pray to me any time. For anything.”

Dean sat in silence for a long minute or two. The carryover emotions from the dream faded, and other feelings returned. The warm hand on his shoulder almost served as a conduit: confusion, rejection, fear.

At this point, they had been together for years, and suddenly it was like they didn't know each other. Dean felt like it had to have something to do with Lucifer, after all Sam had been through. But a deep dark part of him was worried that Castiel was trying to move on, but just didn’t know how to tell Dean. 

A random image of little green seedlings popped into his head, and he realized how long he’d been sitting there silent. 

“Have you been working on the Green Room?” He asked the question to avoid the other questions he should’ve been asking.

Castiel appeared surprised, but he indulged him regardless. “Yes, I thought it would be practical to grow plants that would be useful to you and Sam. I also… found it a valuable way to spend time.”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed. “I’ve been bored at the snail’s pace of this hunt too.”

“I wouldn’t call it boredom. More an opportunity to connect, or create.” Cas seemed like he was struggling with the words.

Dean had no idea what he was talking about it, but it was a very Castiel thing to say and it hurt. The things that Castiel said were so profound sometimes that they were  hysterical. No one talked like Cas, not even other angels, and it was something Dean adored. The truth was Dean loved the stupid way Castiel talked. 

Nausea rose up as he shaped the words. Castiel’s hand was still on his shoulder, each finger tip a point of gentle pressure.

“Cas, I don’t understand what’s going on between us.”

His lips twitched in confusion as Castiel’s gaze measured him, deep blue in the dark. 

“I am trying to give you space.”

Dean felt like they’d had an entire conversation he’d forgotten. It was like he’d gone to the bathroom at the movies and missed a crucial scene. 

“Why?”

Amazingly, Castiel seemed to struggle for the words. “I find that I…”

Dean watched his mind work and wondered what could have Cas at a loss. The angel stated everything as a matter of fact, even his feelings, and he didn’t have the artifice to phrase his words in a delicate manner for others’ benefit. 

“I find that I am struggling with the nature of our relationship in light of recent events.”

Gutpunched. That was the only word for how Dean felt in response. While Dean scrabbled at his feelings, Castiel continued.

“I know it’s difficult for you to express your emotions. You also take responsibility for the wellbeing of those around you. You do not have to do that for me. I want you to be happy.”

Dean felt like they were speaking two different languages. He didn’t understand what Cas was saying, and he was also spiraling deeper into his own thoughts and fears. Was Castiel breaking up with him?

Something must have happened with Lucifer - Castiel had said “in light of recent events” as if Dean should know. He felt anger, defensiveness, rising up in him and he shoved at it, opting to reach out to Cas in a more comfortable language. 

“Castiel,” Dean gripped Castiel by the back of his neck, bringing him close to touch their foreheads together. He gazed seriously into Cas’ eyes and enunciated, “I am happy.” Then he kissed Castiel full on the mouth.

With a groan, Castiel leaned into him, his hand falling to Dean’s hip. Dean’s heart pounded as possession and anger welled up in him. He shoved Castiel back on the bed, fisting his hand in Cas’s shirt while he claimed his mouth. Tentatively, Cas’ tongue touched his and he slid back to bite Castiel’s lower lip. 

Dean brought his other hand up and wrapped his fingers in Cas’ hair, yanking his head back to the bed while he sunk his teeth into Castiel’s neck and sucked at the joint between neck and shoulder.

The angel’s breath hitched as Dean drove one leg down between his thighs, grinding his hips against him. Dean was gratified to find Cas hard.

“Dean,” Castiel moaned as Dean tore at his clothes, anxious to get closer. 

“Dean, stop.”

Stung, Dean released him and backed away with a huff. Cas reached out two hands to soothe him, but when he saw the look in Dean’s eyes, he wisely stopped short of touching him. Dean, of course, didn’t know what he looked like in that moment, but he was certain based on the cornered animal expression in Castiel’s eyes that his gaze was scorching. 

He felt out of control in all ways. His physical need was wild and aching. His words and emotions seemed insufficient. 

“I’m sorry, Dean. I just need some time to think.”

Nodding, Dean started to shut down. He replied curtly, “No, I’m sorry.”

“I do want you,” Castiel started. Dean turned away and pushed away to put some physical distance between them. “How could I not? I just find I need more than you can give.”

Dean’s recoiled. As if he had not always given Cas everything, anything he’d ever asked for, and now Cas was asking him to scrape out the little bits left. 

With one hand hovering over Dean’s hand, Castiel rambled on, like he was trying to explain. Dean thought that he was done listening, until he heard what Cas was saying.

“Amara showed me the truth of your feelings. It was an invasion - I know.”

Dean felt ill. 

“I protested, but she forced me to see.” 

Was this another nightmare, right on the heels of the last? 

“I have never been disconcerted by any affection you’ve felt for other humans before, but I’m failing to be so equanimous in this case.”

Dean barked out a laugh as he twisted around to stare at Cas. Amara had somehow impressed on Castiel the depth of Dean’s feelings, and now Castiel was pulling away from him. How fucking ironic.

He returned to that sunny moment in the garden, when Amara took his shoulder and led him briefly away from Chuck. She said, “Dean, you gave me what I needed most. I wanted to do the same for you.”

Then she told him how she had rent Lucifer apart as she tortured him, devouring his soul after she had ground it into sand. He recalled shivering in disgust and horror, wondering why she was telling him. Then she said, almost with fascination, that she unexpectedly discovered another soul in his vessel, and she recognized it immediately because she had seen its signature before in Dean. 

When she saw Castiel, she felt Dean’s love as powerfully as it was her own. She ripped the two apart and healed the damage both she and Lucifer had done to Castiel. 

“His soul was marked by your love. As visible as the Mark of Cain,” Amara told him with gentle affection. “I could not harm him anymore than you could harm me.”

As disturbing as it was for Amara to attempt to understand human emotion, and to reflect his own love back to him, Dean was grateful. Not only because Lucifer got the end he deserved. But standing there in front of her, his emotions laid bare, for once he didn’t feel shame - he felt alight with relief for the strange connection they shared that had saved Cas.

In the moment, she gave a name to his previously nameless emotions. Touched them as if they were tangible. They existed before, but somehow they had felt more real since the Darkness had witnessed them.

And now, Cas was telling him that Amara had shown him Dean’s love too, and Cas was somehow repulsed by it. 

Amara made Dean feel pure and bright in that love - he’d floated through the rest of the day on that feeling. But maybe she only saw it that way because it was in contrast to her darkness. As he’d always suspected, even the best of his human emotions were base and ugly to someone so good as Castiel. 

He felt ungenerous. Of course Cas wasn’t repulsed by him - after all, they’d slept together just a few nights ago. Cas probably wasn’t capable of disgust or condescension. But she had obviously shown him how Dean felt, and he was “disconcerted” by it. 

With a deep inhale, Dean admitted that this all had to come to an end someday anyway. Why was he so upset? Castiel was a powerful and immortal being, and Dean was just the asshole trying to push his problems onto an angel.

“Alright,” Dean replied finally, resignation in his voice. “I get it, Cas.”

“I would like to stay in your life, Dean,” Castiel said it with so much sadness that resentment coiled up in Dean like poison. He was the only one who deserved to sound that miserable.

“Sure, whatever,” he bit out.

Dean needed the conversation to stop. He would say anything to make it stop.

  
  


Castiel sagged against the wall next to Room 11 after the door latched shut. His body was wobbly with emotion, and he sank down to his knees on the floor. 

Their conversation had not gone at all how he’d expected. 

Dean had never really reciprocated his feelings, never returned the same words. The righteous man. Incredibly flawed, and yet always finding the right decision, clear in his purpose, proof in human form of the power of free will. Dean had always inspired Castiel to look beyond what he was told, and instead to find true morality. He gave Castiel a new and truer understanding of himself. 

He adored and admired every part of Dean. And he wanted him with a fierceness that he didn’t know he was capable of.

He struggled to understand every aspect of human emotion, but he’d always believed their relationship was a stopover for Dean on the way to someone more fulfilling and worthwhile. That’s why seeing the pain raw on Dean’s face had been difficult - Dean cared about him, even if it was different than how Castiel felt.

Feeling foolish and utterly defective, he pushed up off the floor and walked away. 

Castiel stood still in the mundane plane of the bunker for some time, lurking right outside the Great Room, listening to the soft music Sam was playing. He let his thoughts cycle for some time before he finally felt calm enough to walk in. 

Glancing up from his reading, Sam gave Castiel a hard look as if he could see right through him, but he mercifully just pushed a book across the table toward him.

“What do you make of this?”

The watercolor brushstrokes at the top of the page caught his attention first: human skeletons mounted on horseback flying across the moon. His mind was sluggish as he scanned the words below.

“I started researching the zombie-thing that attacked me, and ended up stumbling across this.”

“I have no personal experience with the Wild Hunt, but I can see some symmetry,” Castiel replied, dropping down into a chair with maybe too much weariness. 

“The Wild Hunt is a party of ghost hunters that ride across the night sky. Apparently the appearance of the Wild Hunt can cause dead people, or draugr, to rise. They’re also known for drunken revelry.”

Castiel flicked through a few pages, then flipped it to the front and read the cover of the book: Wilde Jagd. 

“Yeah, that’s the problem. There’s a whole lot of lore about the Wild Hunt, so it doesn’t really narrow down a specific culprit or solution. We’d need to try a lot of things.”

Sam was right. There was not simply a book about the Wild Hunt. There were volumes. 

Coming slowly back to himself, Castiel tried to focus for Sam’s sake, even though he was drifting far from the practicalities of the hunt. He remembered his original suggestion to Dean.

“Do you still believe it could be related to the bunker? Or one of the decorations we discovered?

“Yeah. Actually, the Wild Hunt has some ties to old Christmas mythology,” Sam grabbed back the book to flip to a certain page. On it was none other than Holda, the goddess and origin for the Santa Claus myth that they’d discussed with Gabriel just days ago. 

Castiel peered down at the painting of Holda dressed in rich red among emerald green leaves. A deep sense of purpose settled in him, calming him.

“I would like to speak to Henry Winchester about your ideas. And what we have been experiencing. It seems like this is escalating as time goes on.”

Sam looked surprised. “You mean - “

“Yes, I would like to return to heaven to find Henry Winchester.”

“Cas, is that a good idea?”

Good idea, bad idea, he didn’t care. At the moment, Castiel was overcome with an emotional nihilism that had to be filled with some kind of significance. He needed to do something that mattered.

Castiel figured that Sam would not react well if he said, ‘I am teetering on the edge of the abyss,’ so he just said, “We don’t appear to have many ideas otherwise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Your Dog by Rose Droll.
> 
> This fic has a playlist! If you enjoy music, here are the songs that helped inspire and guide this fanfic: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7jNfMfZcNsuruH6mhpklZW?si=Tn5PrRwuRVWNy08duw-DCA


	8. If Your Prayer Is a Fist, Does It Knock Out The Teeth?

When Dean woke up the next day, Sam gathered everyone to discuss the next steps in their plans. Uncharacteristically, Dean appeared completely disinterested in making breakfast, instead putting a single piece of bread in the toaster and eating it dry. 

“What’s your deal?” Sam peered down at Dean.

“Just eating toast and hoping the ceiling caves in,” Dean grumbled under his breath. He looked like he hadn’t slept at all, and Sam was irrationally angry at him for not taking full advantage of his turn while Sam stayed up on watch.

Sam couldn’t help but notice that Castiel and Dean didn’t meet each other’s eyes, and the tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife.

He was sure both of them were utterly oblivious to how obvious they were, but even Gabriel noticed, exchanging a look with Sam.

“Ok, so we have two main leads to follow. What is happening is either focused on the town, or it’s focused on the bunker. For the former, we can do a good old-fashioned undercover investigation to find out if other people are experiencing strange dreams or draugr. For the latter, Castiel has a plan to break into heaven to speak with our grandfather about the bunker.”

Sam had taken the time to explain what he’d read about draugr or revenants, but he kept what he had shared with Castiel about the Wild Hunt to himself for the moment. Of course, he trusted Dean, but Gabriel had returned whenever Dean had woken up and he wanted to keep some of his theories close to the chest while he puzzled out Gabriel’s secrets.

After all, both Holda and Odin were mentioned in the lore as potential Kings of the Wild Hunt, leaders of the ghostly cavalcade. Both gods were Gabriel’s former associates. 

Crunching irritably in the corner, Dean replied, “I’m down to play cop, but I don’t like the idea of Cas going back to heaven. He has a lot of enemies there.”

“Trust me, Cas can handle those leftovers. There’s not many angels left up there that aren’t dumber than a bag of hammers,” Gabriel shrugged. Dean looked unconvinced. 

“I plan to summon an angel first, a sister who has been an ally in the past, to pinpoint Henry Winchester’s location before I go,” Castiel explained.

“Why don’t you just go with him?” Dean asked, glaring at Gabriel.

“Can’t. Heaven is barred to me thanks to my best bro, Michael.”

Dean scowled and Sam cut in, “Let’s wait to make the final call until Cas can speak with his friend about conditions in heaven. In the meantime, Dean - you can start interviewing people here in town, but I don’t feel 100% comfortable with you going solo.”

“Oh, so everyone’s confident that Castiel can jailbreak Heaven and fight off the host, but I can’t face down a stupid, rickety skeleton by myself?”

Sam scrubbed at his face, “Dean. Taking down just one of them was a son of a bitch, not to mention I had to hack at it in broad daylight. We’re lucky we’re not in a Waco situation out here with the Feds trying to smoke us out.”

“You do not do subtle well,” Castiel added, and Dean met his eyes for the first time with hostility. 

“You need back up, and I think it’s a good idea for me to lay low in case anyone saw my face earlier,” Sam confirmed.

“Wait wait wait,” Dean said as it dawned on him. “You want me and Gabriel to interrogate the townspeople?”

Realization lit both of their faces, and Dean and Gabriel both started protesting at the same time. 

Gabriel started, “You think I’M subtle? I hardly blend in with a bunch of Midwestern sheep-dicking bumpkins -”

While Dean said, “If you think I’m playing good cop, bad cop with that horny feathered jump-scare -”

Sam yelled them both down, “That’s how it’s going down! If you two have a better plan, name it.” 

The argument continued for quite a while, raising in volume and intensity until it finally fizzled out. 

In all honesty, Sam was grateful for the distraction of the disagreement. It meant that he could continue working on his third and final plan: getting the truth out of Gabriel. The archangel was absolutely hiding something, whether it was nefarious or not, it was undoubtedly related to their current scenario. He needed to be able to observe Gabriel to develop his approach.

Predictably, Sam won the argument. Castiel went to prepare the basement for an angel summoning, and Dean stalked off to his room to change into a suit and tie, neither one trading an additional word or glance.

Both Sam and Gabriel watched them go, before Gabriel turned back to Sam with an eyebrow raised. 

“Trouble in paradise?” He observed rhetorically.

Sam just shrugged, too focused to spend much time at the moment trying to meddle in his brother’s love-life. 

Gabe hopped up from his chair with an expression of resignation and held his hands out, “Well, if I’m going to do this, the least you can do is help me pick out a suit.”

Sam opened his mouth to strongly decline, but Gabe had already started flickering rapidly from one suit option to the next, each one more ridiculous than the previous.

“A canadian tuxedo feels particularly appropriate in this bumfuck town,” Gabriel said, dressed head to toe in denim, down to a denim cowboy hat. “No? Ok.” 

“What about this one?” Gabriel asked, now in a dated powder blue suit from head to toe and a top hat, distinctly a famous Dumb and Dumber getup. 

“I hate you,” Sam grumbled, feeling the beginnings of a headache and putting his forehead in his hands at the table.

“How does it go again?” Gabe quipped, and Sam glanced through his fingers to see Gabriel dressed in an 1800s tweed suit with a cravat, a deerstalker hat and a pipe with smoking curling up. “The game’s afoot.”

When the thought flicked through his head that Gabriel made a pretty good Sherlock Holmes, Sam just shut the gap between his fingers and groaned.

“In all seriousness, Sam, I don’t know if this is a good idea.”

Glancing reluctantly again at Gabriel, he was surprised to finally find him in an appropriate black suit. To be honest, the suit and blue tie looked too expensive and tailored - more James Bond, less Fox Mulder - but Sam knew better than to complain at this point. Sam fought his gaze as it travelled down, bringing it back up firmly to Gabe’s face.

“Why?” 

“The bunker just seems a lot safer than out there,” Gabriel shrugged, pointing a thumb in the general direction of outside. “The only time anyone was attacked was when you left.”

“We can’t stay in here forever. Plus, that’s kind of the gig: saving people, hunting things. People out there might not be safe.”

“I could make it more interesting in here,” Gabriel offered, and the room transformed into a broad hospital hallway. People bustled by and codes echoed over the loudspeaker, Sam glanced down - he was wearing a white coat over blue scrubs. 

A nurse grabbed his arm, saying, “Dr. Winchester. Thank god I found you. You’re needed in the operating room right away.”

She started to drag him away, and he peeled her hand away from his arm, wheeling back toward Gabriel as the nurse squawked. 

“Not into the doctor drama thing?” Gabriel read his expression of impatience and tapped his chin with his pointer finger. “I guess this may be a little high stress. Time to take a load off.”

Sam found himself on his belly, propped on one elbow looking at Gabriel from a massage table, both of them covered only with a sheet from the hips down. A beautiful woman was digging into Gabriel’s shoulders with the heels of her hands. Soft, ambient music played while the room filled with the scent of lavender and eucalyptus. 

Behind Sam, another equally impossible woman put soft hands on the arch of his foot and dug in with unlikely strength.

“Gabe.”

“Alright! Fine. This one’s too on the nose, huh, goldilocks?” 

Gabriel’s thoughtful face melted into a groan as the dark-haired woman behind him ran her hands all the way down to the base of his spine. Irritation and interest built up in Sam, but Dean rounded the corner, walking into the massage room exactly at that time in a cheap black suit and tie.

“What the hell?”

The illusion melted away, and then reformed around Dean. Plucked straight from a childhood memory of tv in shitty motel rooms, they stood in the main bridge of the USS Enterprise. Gabriel slouched in the captain’s chair dressed in mustard yellow - the old school uniforms - with one knee thrown over the armrest and his legs splayed wide. Inevitably, Dean stood in front of a console of yellow lights, wearing Uhura’s red dress and an expression of rage.

“Come on. You can’t tell me you’ve never wanted to boldly go where no man has gone before,” Gabe said, bounding up from his seat and sweeping a hand at the umbrella of stars arched out before them.

Sam looked down. Based on his blue uniform and his position nearby Gabriel, he guessed he was meant to be Spock.

It was almost tempting, almost.

But Sam was catching on to Gabriel’s game. Gabe was a trickster, but his humor and illusions weren’t random. He used them to deflect attention from himself. But were his attempts at distraction an attempt to conceal discomfort, like humans tended to do? Or was it a manipulative game of smoke and mirrors to hide something bigger?

“You really don’t like this plan do you?” He said.

They returned to the kitchen of the bunker abruptly as if Sam had tripped the breaker and shut down the power on his illusion. Unfortunately, Dean clearly hadn’t caught on to Sam’s attempt to force Gabriel into a candid response.

Dean cut in first, grousing, “I don’t like it either.”

Smirking, Gabriel narrowed his eyes as he gazed back at Sam, “See?”

  
  
  


Dean collected their fake badges and his weapons as Castiel instructed Gabriel in the finer points of pretending to be a cop. It was like the blind leading the insane, given that Castiel still couldn’t remember which way the badge flipped open. Slamming the trunk to the Impala shut, Dean couldn’t help but feel like Sam and Castiel had hatched this plan just to get them out of the house so no one was there to question the wisdom of breaking into heaven.

He was mollified only because Castiel promised that he would wait until they all were present to summon Bethel. 

Gabe unbuttoned his suit jacket as he slid down into the passenger seat of the impala, quipping at Dean, “I’m your huckleberry.”

Cranking the engine and blasting the radio, Dean nearly peeled out of the garage and out onto the back road entrance to the bunker. Surprisingly, the moment that they turned onto the main road, the car became tense and still as Gabriel went quiet.

While it made Dean feel uneasy because he expected to spend the entire day threatening Gabriel within an inch of his life to get him to shut up, he also wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. The brooding, strained atmosphere fit his mood anyway after he’d slept almost none at all and single handedly drank about half a bottle of shitty tequila snuck into his room after Cas had gone. 

Sliding into a parking spot on Main Street, Dean dialed the music down and said, “We’ll start with the town watering holes, then we’ll go door to door if we have to. I’ll do all the talking - just hold up your badge when I do.”

“Right-o, captain,” Gabriel saluted, but his eyes still looked far away as they both climbed out of the car. 

The air was a bit warmer out as the late afternoon sun set, turning the snow banks on the curbs into a gray slush. Lebanon, KS was one of the smaller small towns that Dean had ever done a hunt in - the kind where the gas station was the restaurant and local hangout and old men visited on a bench outside the garage, which changed oil and did repairs on everything from big rigs to tractors. 

Dean and Gabriel walked into the local bank first. Everything closed early around here, but the bank closed earliest.

Unlike most banks, this one was just a converted metal trailer parked across an empty lot covered in a fine blanket of snow. He knew that pretending to be a Fed in this town would stir up a lot of suspicion, but everyone knew everyone within a hundred miles, so he couldn’t pretend to be a local cop either.

The bank was a far cry from the fancy brick buildings in larger towns, with carpeted floor and two desks facing the door that looked like they’d seen better days. A small Christmas tree with blinking rainbow lights sat in the corner and poinsettias sat on both of the desks. Judy Garland played from a 90s radio with a moveable antenna. Dean glanced around - the place was empty, so he dinged the bell on one desk a few times. 

A woman with a high pile of gray hair entered through the back door, looking them both up and down unimpressed. 

“Afternoon ma’am, I’m Deputy Bowie and this is Deputy Crosby of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We’re seeking information about a person of interest who may have travelled out this way. Do you have a minute to answer a few questions?”

Dean flashed his badge, and he was gratified to watch Gabriel silently flash his too. It was even the right way up. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

“We’ve never had anyone from the FBI come around here before.” With her non-answer, she looked them both up and down again. 

Smiling wide, Dean replied, “Well, ma’am, we’re in from the Kansas City office. There’s a little girl who went missing and we think it was the father who took her. We have reason to believe he’s trying to blend into a small town somewhere in the state. We’d appreciate it if you could tell us if you’ve seen any strangers or any other things out of place over the past week or so.”

The woman didn’t have much to say, although Dean did discover that someone had witnessed Sam fighting the draugr, but it was a young kid and no one was paying him much mind. There were rarely strangers that came through Lebanon, she said, so it would be the talk of the town if one had.

He asked her who else he should talk to, specifically how he could locate the preacher from the Methodist church at the end of the street, and thanked her for her time.

Once they were walking down the sidewalk toward the gas station, Gabriel spoke for the first time.

“Small town America’s a real snore.”

“I’m guessing you haven’t spent much time in the heartland,” Dean replied, placing his feet carefully to avoid ice and snow. 

“Can’t say that I have. I chased a white bison through here once to offer as a sacrifice to a local god. Before that, I guided a tornado’s path around a small village when I was still on heaven’s payroll. But I’ve never chit-chatted with the locals.”

Dean cocked an eyebrow at him before saying, “People are usually pretty friendly. The FBI thing puts them on edge.”

They stepped into the gas station and did the badge and introduction spiel again. After some initial suspicion, the owner and other folks milling around, chit-chatting and eating sandwiches, opened up, even offering them free instant hot chocolate in tiny styrofoam cups.

Predictably, someone told them the story about the boy witnessing a tall man chopping a zombie up and then burning down his back shed. They all corroborated that the shed was indeed burned down, but there was nothing strange about what they found inside and they figured it was just an electrical issue from wiring to the lights going bad due to snow melts.

The conversation meandered, and soon Agents Bowie and Crosby were getting an earful about someone named Rick’s mom’s “old-timers” and how Palmer was going to default on his loan next year if the summer wasn’t milder and easier on his crop. Dean was trying to find a polite way to excuse them both when a younger woman named Wanda mentioned that coyotes had been disturbing the graveyard. 

There was a long debate about the right way to shoot a coyote, but everyone was in agreement that coyotes were a menace. 

Dean couldn’t help but ask, “Where is the graveyard at?”

Luckily, they were too wrapped up in telling stories about their lives at this point, that no one noticed that the location of the graveyard had nothing to do with a kidnapping case. 

“Oh, it’s over in the churchyard. Mrs. Kathy was buried just last week, and those coyotes came and ripped up her grave right after. There must not be a lot to eat out there in the snow. Poor Candace has been crying about it all week.”

“Thanks for the hot chocolate, folks. We’re gonna continue on our investigation. Y’all have a Merry Christmas,” Dean tipped his cup at them as he said farewell. As they left, he heard one of them mention how strange it was that Agent Crosby had been absolutely silent the whole time.

The sun was starting to set outside, casting an orange glow over the snow, but Dean was determined to at least get a peek at the graveyard before throwing in the towel. His unusual hours of late were making him yawn, and small town folks usually didn’t kindly to strangers knocking on their doors after dark. They could speak with the preacher in the morning. 

“You’re creeping people out with your bad cop routine, dude,” Dean told Gabriel as they hoofed it down the side of the street toward the steeple a few blocks away.

“I’m just doing as told.”

“I guess sometimes miracles do happen,” Dean snorted. “Look, when Cas and I have done this in the past, it’s better if he says nothing at all. When he asks questions, he always asks something strange, and it’s even worse when he tries to actually pretend to be a cop. I assumed you would be as bad at pretending.”

“Why, Dean, are you actually complimenting me?” Gabriel held a hand to his chest as if he was holding Dean’s words near.

“No,” Dean bit back, “I’m just saying maybe you can be trusted to talk like a normal person.” 

“What, like it’s hard?” Gabriel replied wryly. “I have lived here longer than you have. Almost fifty of your lifetimes, in fact. Castiel has less than a decade under his belt.”

Dean considered Gabriel’s words. It was easy to just think of him as another asshole angel, and forget that Gabriel had left heaven a long time ago and walked so long on the Earth that he mingled with Gods. Dean had met angels who thought humans were no better than cockroaches, descending to Earth only to crush problems, and angels who had fallen and had little memory of their past and no true power. Gabe was a different kind of creature - really a lot more like a pagan god really, like they’d originally thought, with human pettiness and vices and yet immense power. 

As the sun sank lower, in a few windows, Christmas lights switched on and they could see an occasional Christmas tree glowing from inside a house. 

They arrived at the low wrought iron fence around the graveyard. It was nothing fancy, with simple gravestones, mostly laid flat into the ground, rather than fancy upright granite or statues. It was no more than a couple dozen graves, but Dean could see where a couple were disturbed. 

Glancing around, he hopped the fence and walked over to the grave. 

“This doesn’t look like an animal,” he commented as he knelt down to look into the empty hole. He wondered how long it would take even a pack of coyotes to dig out a grave dug six foot deep. Not to mention, after embalming and being put into a coffin, there really wasn’t much smell to attract an animal. That was kind of the point.

“I don’t think we should linger here too long unless we want another public hack-a-thon,” Gabriel projected his voice, still standing on the other side of the iron fence. 

“If reanimated corpses are coming out of this graveyard, they’ll be a threat to the town too, and they won’t have any tools to fight back,” Dean scrabbled a hand around in the loose dirt, not sure what he was looking for. 

“If there are more draugr out there, they don’t seem to be very interested in the townsfolk yet.”

Dean stood up and dusted his hand off on his slacks, then started walking back to Gabriel so they didn’t have to yell. 

“So what, they’re just interested in Sam?”

Gabriel shrugged, “I don’t know yet.”

The last of the sunlight receded below the horizon, and a single light turned on in one of the farther church windows. 

“We should go,” Dean finally agreed and lifted his leg to climb back over the fence, but he was jerked back in the opposite direction by a hard grip clasping over his other leg, throwing him off balance.

He tumbled back and hit the ground with an ‘oof.’ Beside him, skeletal hands scrabbled at the dirt and a corpse popped out of the ground, nimble as a spider. Eye-less sockets turned toward him, a bit of straggly hair swinging with the head in the dim twilight.

Opening its mouth, the creature shrieked.

Dean crab crawled back through the graveyard on his feet and hands. He pulled out his machete from where it was holstered inside his jacket.

The creature vaulted across the grave marker, landing heavy on top of Dean and knocking the wind out of him. Before Dean could even raise the machete to defend himself, the draugr jerked back, as if hitting an imaginary wall. Then it flew.

Shooting through the air, Dean followed it until it stopped about a foot from Gabriel’s outstretched hand, as if magnetized. Gabriel closed his hand. It dropped unceremoniously back on top of its loose grave in a heap. 

When Gabriel spoke, it was in his true voice, and Dean couldn’t make out anything except a piercing ring as his hands flew over his ears. The incredible power of his words rattled the windows around them, and Dean gaped at the rare example of just how mighty archangels could be. Between the jokes and Gabriel’s typically unassuming appearance, it was easy to forget. 

The draugr quite literally re-buried itself, like watching a video in reverse. By the time Gabriel finished speaking, the grave appeared still and untouched again, even the grass and snow had been restored. The charged air released in a woosh, settling back into the still of the night and Dean vaguely recognized he could see the stars above.

He shook his head to clear the daze. Once he regained his bearings, he jumped to his feet and scrambled back over the fence in case any other dead were trying to rise.

“Let’s go,” Gabriel commanded, deadly serious, tossing a glance toward the lit window in the church. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from If Your Prayer by Hawksley Workman.
> 
> This fic has a playlist! If you enjoy music, here are the songs that helped inspire and guide this fanfic: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7jNfMfZcNsuruH6mhpklZW?si=Tn5PrRwuRVWNy08duw-DCA


	9. I Slithered Here From Eden Just to Sit Outside Your Door

Back at the bunker, Sam and Cas had spent the afternoon collecting holy oil, painting blood sigils on the wall and otherwise preparing the basement for the angel summoning. Sam shared ideas about the draugr and the Wild Hunt, while Castiel shared stories about the angel Bethel and how she had supported Castiel in heaven. 

Castiel seemed off. Not in some big sense of the word, just a mundane kind of melancholy. Sam noticed that he tip-toed around mentioning Dean, often choosing to avoid any topic that touched on his brother at all, which was strange. It was obvious something was going on between the two of them, but he figured that distraction might do Cas more good now than pushing him for answers. 

Once the basement was ready, they returned to the kitchen and started working on dinner for the humans of the house. While Sam browned ground beef in a cast iron dutch oven, Castiel fiddled with a Christmas placemat on the kitchen table that portrayed the nativity.

“Ironically, Bethel is the namesake for the Star of Bethlehem. She was one of the heralds of Jesus’ birth,” Castiel shared and Sam titled his head.

“Huh. I thought the star was just called that because the town was called that.”

“No. The town is called Bethlehem after Bethel. Bethel was its protector. That night, her grace enveloped the town. Humans experienced it as a meteor shower, hence the Star of Bethlehem.”

They continued on in silence for a few moments while Sam let that sink in. 

His mind drifted back to their overlying problem: the hunt. He had no doubt that the Wild Hunt existed. There were stories about it in many cultures, including even modern stories or songs, and many hunters had documented encounters with the riders. The Men of Letters had written about encounters extensively, and different authors had theorized that the hunt was the work of demons or Lucifer, while others postulated that the leader was a pagan god or even a powerful elf. 

In some stories the Wild Hunt was a more corporeal apparition, and in others it was more celestial, but it was rare to hear accounts of the hunt appearing only in dreams. Even rarer for those hunters to be friends and family-members. But then again, most people encountered the Wild Hunt in the woods or near scenes of battle, not in a Men of Letters bunker.

Sam asked Castiel, continuing their ongoing thought exercise, “What do you think about the stories where people offer help to the Wild Hunt, and the Wild Hunt moves on without harming them?”

“The virtues of hospitality and charity toward strangers are often central themes in ancient myths,” Castiel replied. “And yet we have seen that morality is often a human value moreso than a rule of the universe.”

“Ok, so a lot of mythical creatures don’t play by the rules. Fairytales are really for humans, by humans.”

“Correct.”

“But what if the King of the Wild Hunt was a moral creature?”

Sam poured a can of tomatoes on top of the browned beef and onions and a cloud of steam billowed up from the pot with a sizzle. 

“That is an interesting question,” Castiel mused. “Does the role determine the nature of the King? Or does the King bring its nature to the role? If the latter is true, that could shape the mythos of the hunt.”

It was still a long shot. All they had to go on so far was a collection of odd dreams and a single experience with the living dead. For lack of more information, they were calling his not-zombie a draugr, but there were a lot of supernatural beings and phenomena out there that could reanimate the dead. 

Still, the timing was too coincidental. The lore was a little too easy to fit into their exact scenario. All of it circled around a single ground zero: Gabriel. 

He wanted to know why, yes, but mostly he just wanted to understand whether the Wild Hunt was an evil that had to be defeated, or if it was less black and white. The King of the Wild Hunt and the hunt itself was ambivalent. Sometimes a harbinger of death and misfortune. Other times the riders simply engaged in some revelry and moved on, harmless. 

As Sam shook several cans of beans into the dutch oven, he wondered if he was searching because there was a legitimate reason to do so, or if it was just because he wanted to believe Gabriel did not have ill-intent. Perhaps they should have already banished Gabriel from the bunker. He startled when he heard the roar of the Impala pulling into the garage beneath them. 

“Let’s keep this conversation between us for now, Cas.”

Castiel tilted his head at Sam, clearly not fully understanding Sam’s intent, but he said, “OK, Sam,” anyway. 

  
  
  


Over two bowls of chili, Dean recounted what they’d discovered that day and the events from the graveyard. Castiel followed the conversation only loosely - his mind was already overcrowded with too many other concerns. 

Heaven was in shambles, and there were many there that wouldn’t wish him well, especially after his most recent visit as Lucifer’s vessel, but he also knew of no strong leaders that could challenge him. He had trepidations about the trip, but he also looked forward to it, hoping for a measure of peace in the space from Dean and in the memories of home. 

“Tomorrow we’ll talk with the preacher,” Dean finished the story while he got a second helping of chili.

“Is it just me, or does it seem like bad things happen only to us and only when we leave the bunker?” Gabriel replied. “It may be a better idea to stay put and work this Henry Winchester angle.”

“Just because they’ve only attacked us doesn’t mean it’ll stay that way,” Dean replied. 

Dean’s poor reaction to their last conversation still weighed heavily on him - his anger and hurt - it made Castiel concerned that their relationship could be irreversibly damaged, and Dean wouldn’t want to associate with him anymore, even as a friend. 

Since it happened, Castiel considered apologizing almost constantly and accepting whatever part of Dean he could have. But every time he thought about Dean and Amara, he felt engulfed in inadequacy and shame. Something about him was insufficient - he lacked some key component that he needed to be loved, to be loveable. It unseated him entirely, threw him into chaos, and he could not stay adrift in that feeling.

“The best leads we have are out there. It’s the only place we actually have ran into anything tangible,” Sam continued. 

“A few dreams. A zombie here and there. It’s not exactly the end of the world, boys. I think we’ve got time to wait on Cas’ findings.”

Finally, Castiel mulled over his conversation with Sam. It was clear Sam was on the pursuit of some theory. In the back of Castiel’s overworked mind, he pulled at the strings too and tried to unwind the mystery. 

He watched Sam’s expression as the brothers bantered with Gabriel. It felt like it should be obvious, but he was admittedly just not at his best. 

Sighing, Castiel stood up and announced, “I am going to summon Bethel now.” 

Then he walked out of the room.

In the basement, he checked the blood sigils again and began pouring the holy oil in a circle on the floor. Castiel did not doubt Bethel’s loyalty, but he couldn’t bring an angel here into the bunker without taking precautions. 

Before Castiel could lift his hand to light the oil, Dean struck a match and knelt to toss it on the circle, saying, “I got it.”

“Thank you,” Castiel lifted his eyes, but Dean turned away before their gazes could meet.

The Winchesters stood together behind Castiel, angel blades out with no pretenses about their threat. Gabriel stood further away in a shadowy corner of the room. Castiel faced forward and warned them, “Get ready,” then he opened his mind and reached out for his sister.

Bethel appeared in the circle in a great rush of light and sound.

Her vessel was young and androgynous, with brown skin and short, artfully coiffed black hair. She wore a tailored black suit over a white button down shirt, the jacket flared in a feminine manner around her hips. As an angel with a unique style, the vessel seemed fitting.

“Castiel,” she greeted him warmly. “This is unexpected.”

“I’m sorry, Bethel, I need your help.”

“Always straight to the point,” she teased with familiarity, then her gaze darkened briefly. “I’m glad you are you again. I didn’t meet Lucifer when he came to heaven, but I felt his presence from afar. I did not expect you to survive.”

Castiel only had a moment to formulate an explanation when she shrugged playfully and shook the moment off. He felt a wash of intense relief as she let the comment go and glanced around. “Ahhh. The Winchesters. It’s a pleasure. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Sam just nodded his head politely, but Dean, ever impudent, responded, “Can’t say Cas has mentioned you before.”

She started to laugh, but the mirth abruptly dropped off her expression as looked off further in the darkness. While Gabriel was holding his grace close to him, there was an angel in the host who would not recognize him on sight. 

In a gasp of astonishment, she whispered, “Brother.”

“Bethel,” Gabriel stepped into the light now that he was spotted. He attempted humor, but it was weak, his countenance far too serious. “We need to make a point to see each other more often than every 2,000 years.”

Her eyes filled with tears, “I thought you were dead.” 

Castiel watched them both closely. Of course, he knew academically that Bethel and Gabriel knew each other. All angels knew each other as the host, but Bethel had served under Gabriel’s watch before Gabriel left heaven.

She glanced around at the holy fire, evidently frustrated at the limits of the circle. Turning a fiery gaze on Castiel, she pleaded, “This circle is unnecessary.”

Castiel shrugged. He would never apologize for taking additional precautions to protect Dean and Sam. Nor would he drop the circle. She huffed in frustration. 

Turning back to Gabriel, she dropped to one knee in a bow. The tall, slender frame of her vessel in the black suit appeared very soldierly in the pose. She said, “Gabriel, you must return to heaven. The host are in chaos, but an archangel, especially you, could restore everything to the way it should be.”

Dean snorted and Castiel sighed impatiently, but both of them held their tongues. 

“Can’t. Michael shut the gates to me.”

“That can be undone. They cannot oppose the sole archangel left.”

Castiel’s interest piqued. Would his brother return to heaven if he was able to? He would wager not. In Gabriel, he believed that he had found a kindred spirit - another who found Earth more worthwhile than heaven, and who had tired of the politics in heaven since their Father left.

Gabriel paused for too long, perhaps considering her offer, or perhaps just determining a kind refusal, so Bethel continued, “Heaven has been… vulnerable to unscrupulous leaders, any one of the host who was hungry and powerful enough. We have been at war and our numbers are few. This is not what our Father would have wished for us. You, both of you, must return.”

“Sounds like business as usual,” Gabriel replied flippantly. “The host like to pretend they are holier than thou, but it’s always been a fucking court intrigue up there.”

Her eyes flashed angrily, but she held back out of deference, “Brother, you have to understand. Things are becoming desperate. Something… strange and new is going on. There is a darkness in the host.”

Strange and new. Castiel mulled her words, wondering what had befallen heaven now. Shifting his focus from Bethel to Gabriel, he searched his brother’s face. His expression was somehow too aware.

“I have my own darkness to deal with,” Gabriel replied gravely. “I washed my hands of heaven long ago.”

Visibly, Castiel could see anger bubble up in her and overtake her reverence for her former commander. With alarm, Castiel flew to stand between the circle and Sam and Dean.

Hurling out her wings, she threw her grace against the circle and erupted once again in a beam of light. Both Dean and Sam staggered and shielded their eyes at the last minute, senses overwhelmed. Castiel flung out his wings too and his angel blade dropped into his hand.

She howled, “Cowards and sodomites! You turn away from your holy authority for base pursuits. Your selfishness will damn us all!”

Within the confines of the circle, she burned so bright that it turned dark at the center, and Castiel watched, disturbed, as rage engulfed her. The ring of holy oil was dim and flickering in comparison. Behind him, he heard Sam struggle to say, “The circle is going to hold her, right?”

Castiel hissed, “Yes.”

Both Gabriel and Castiel did nothing, knowing that Bethel, as a cherubim, did not have the power to break the circle. 

Finally, as if she’d consumed all the oxygen in the room, the blaze began to subside. Castiel watched, realizing she was reining it in with a fierce concentration of will. With a final wheeze, she fought it back and fell on her knees. 

Castiel left his blade naked in his hand and his wings extended, but he stepped closer. “Bethel, are you alright?”

“I’m sorry,” she croaked, then cleared her throat and grated out. “I told you. The host is in shadow.”

Castiel traded a glance with Gabriel, but the archangel’s expression was closed.

“Bethel, I summoned you here because I need to speak to a soul in heaven. If I return, can you help me understand this shadow?” 

“Cas, you’re not seriously going to go back to heaven with this chick?” Dean cut in incredulously. “She just tried to melt our fucking brains out.”

Dean could not see, of course, what Castiel saw in Bethel’s outburst. There was something strange about it - almost like she was fighting off a foreign influence. In the millenia that Castiel had known Bethel, she had never been prone to fury. He had no intention of trying to fix the problems of heaven anymore, but he couldn’t resist feeling empathy for a friend.

“Who do you wish to see?” She asked, ignoring Dean.

“I need to speak with Henry Winchester. Do you know how to find him?”

Unlike before, she avoided looking at Gabriel, addressing Castiel instead. He was uncertain if she had simply given up on convincing him, or if she was embarrassed to look upon him after her behavior. 

“I do,” she said with the barest smile. “His heaven is, well, a lot like this.” She gestured around with a hand. Pushing up off the ground, she stood upright and worked to regain her early playfulness.

“If you will take me, I will also listen on the journey,” he offered with compassion. 

“Very well. I have questions for you too.” Her eyes flickered in the direction of Gabriel, but stopped short of eye contact with the archangel.

Leaving Bethel to recover in the circle, he gathered the Winchesters and walked them out of the room. Gabriel followed wordlessly, without a farewell to his sister, and leaned against the rail in the narrow staircase up from the basement where they all paused to confer. 

“We can get this information some other way. There have to be Men of Letters in the pit. Crowley seems more trustworthy than her,” Dean argued. As he spoke, Castiel noticed a slow trickle of blood from his ear and he lifted his hand before he realized what he was doing and touched Dean’s cheek bone.

Dean’s eyes met his with a look of surprise and panic before he steeled his expression off. “What are you doing?”

“She ruptured your eardrum,” Castiel explained, snatching his hand back apologetically just as soon as he’d finished healing the injury.

Clearing his throat, Sam blessedly ended the awkward moment, adding, “I agree with Dean. It sounds like something is going on in Heaven. We can explore other leads.”

“From what I understand, there are very few Seraphim left, and none of them could hold a candle to Cas,” Gabriel winked at him as he said it. “The Henry Winchester angle is a good idea. Plus, if something is going down in heaven, it would be good for us to know about it.”

Dean scowled at Gabriel, while Sam just turned his head toward him thoughtfully. 

“You don’t get a vote,” Dean griped. 

Castiel considered Gabriel’s confidence in him, given that this was the second time he’d expressed his belief that Castiel would be among the most powerful in heaven. It was a strange assertion, given his recent trials with both Naomi and Metatron. Both were dead, but Gabriel’s assertion still seemed unbelievable at best. 

“No one is voting,” Castiel stated. “I am going. But I will return as soon as possible.”

Rolling his eyes, Dean said, “Fine,” and walked away up the stairs in defeat.

“Cas, I’m serious,” Sam tried one last time, “we have other angles we can explore. If you’re interested in helping Bethel, I’d understand. But don’t feel like you have to do this for us.”

Castiel was driven by both desires. Like Gabriel, he did not want to become embroiled in the matters of heaven, but unlike Sam and Dean, he did not think Bethel was simply a “dick.” If something had infected the host, it could endanger not just heaven, but Earth.

Sam just put a hand on his shoulder and said, “Be careful,” before ascending the steps too.

Gabriel bid Castiel the final farewell, saying simply, “I’m growing to like you, Cas. Be sure to come back in one piece.” Then he disappeared. 

He returned to the basement where Bethel cocked an eyebrow at him in question. 

“Let’s go.”

  
  
  


Dean retired to the garage to take out some frustration on an antique car, while Sam cleaned up the remnants of dinner in the kitchen. They hadn’t discussed who would sleep first, while the other stayed up on watch, but Sam was too wired for sleep anyway. His hands were cold after washing the dishes, and he stuffed them in the pockets of his hoodie and decided to restart the fire in the great room.

As if by magic, there was a full rack of firewood beside the fireplace, even though the fire had just recently died down to embers. Almost every day, Dean restocked the wood in the rack by the fireplace, keeping the stack full for everyone else. Lost in thought, Sam slowly rebuilt the fire and fanned oxygen on it to get the embers to catch the new logs. 

If something was wrong with the angels in heaven, could it also be wrong with the angels on Earth? He had been building theories all day, and now he had a new detail to fit into the mix. There were so many disparate points of data at this point that he wondered if it was unwise to try to link them all together - less scientific and more conspiracy theorist. 

The fire having taken off, he settled back into a chair and asked aloud, “Gabe?”

“You shouldn’t abuse the power of prayer, you know?” Gabriel quipped. “Someday you’ll actually need something, and I’ll just think you’re wanting to chit chat.”

“I can’t exactly just walk into another room and find you, can I?”

Sam weighed Gabriel’s words anyway, and the unspoken offer in them, with Gabriel almost indicating that he was available if Sam needed something. After all these years with Castiel becoming a trusted part of their family, a brother they could call upon, he wondered if Gabe was modeling his interactions with them after Castiel as a clever trick.

Gabe flopped down in another chair nearby the fire, conceding Sam’s point in his body language. 

“So my brother, your brother. Clearly a lover’s spat, wouldn’t you say?” Gabriel offered as if he was making conversation. 

Sam couldn’t stop a laugh, thinking about Dean’s face if he’d heard the description. “They both probably think they are being very discreet about it.”

“Hah! The tension around here is thick enough to choke a two bit hooker.”

"You seemed very confident that Cas could hold his own in heaven."

Gabe accepted the shift in topic, answering the unspoken question, "He is more powerful than he realizes. He is part of a bigger story now."

"What does that mean?"

"He is a living myth already. He will take on new powers based on those who believe in him. Castiel is the only being in creation that has killed an archangel. Except Amara, but she wasn’t created."

Sam had too many follow-up questions to ask them all, so he settled with, “What about Metatron then, and Naomi? Both of them took advantage of Castiel.”

“Well, trickery is a different thing than raw power,” Gabriel cast a sidelong smile at Sam, “but still, he still thinks he is just a seraphim. So he acts like one.”

With his usual joyful energy, Gabriel jumped to his feet and walked over to the fire. “I plan to show him. Well, that is…”

Sam waited for him to finish in silence, but after several seconds had passed, he promoted, “That is what?”

Gabriel turned to face him. In a rare moment, his gaze was open, almost earnest, although that word could never really be used to describe the archangel. The orange glow of the firelight softened the sharp wit, the aura of power, and he appeared not just approachable, but touchable. 

Sam could not imagine forgetting that Gabriel was inhuman, but as his eyes travelled across the light flickering on Gabriel’s wavy brown hair and the touches of gray in his short beard, he wondered if his hair was soft, and he wondered if Gabriel’s vessel, like Castiel’s, had been remade permanently out of preference.

“That is,” Gabriel restarted, “if I have time.” 

His head was a little foggy with too much physical interest, and his heart pounded, perhaps in anticipation at solving another aspect of the riddle, or perhaps in arousal, as he  asked, “Before what?”

“Before you all kick me out, of course,” Gabriel returned to his perpetual joke, and Sam sensed that the moment had slid by. He pulled in a shaky, but controlled breath. 

Cannily, Sam shifted tactics, “I have a theory about what’s happening.”

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t,” Gabriel smirked into the fire.

“It’s a little atypical, but the signs fit a lot of the markers of the Wild Hunt,” Sam watched Gabriel’s face carefully as he continued. “Dreams. Hunters. The dead rising.”

“Not a bad theory,” Gabriel shrugged, impassive.

“What I’m unclear on is whether the Wild Hunt is actually evil, or if it’s really just a supernatural phenomena, neither good nor bad.”

“Are you killing a monster, or just telling some drunken partiers to ‘go on, git?’” Gabriel summarized his thoughts and Sam nodded. “Most hunters I’ve met in the past are more the point and stab variety.”

Honestly, Sam wasn’t perfect. He had his fair share of poor decisions and knee-jerk reactions to monsters. Dean had some kind of deep moral compass that guided him, paired with a sense of intuition that rarely was wrong about people. Sam, on the other hand, followed his reason to its logical conclusion, and at times, the ends had ended up justifying the means. He’d misread people out of a pursuit for knowledge or belief, and the results had been horrific.

When he was a kid, he’d never thought of himself as a hunter. Then he’d been a student and a future lawyer. After that, he’d been lost until he discovered the Men of Letters. Sam had long since accepted that hunting was his life, but he had no desire to live in the dark. 

With the right information, he could make the right choices, but as he got older, he needed more and more information to trust anything.

Sam replied simply, “I’m not most hunters.”

At his words, Gabe lifted his gaze and met Sam’s eyes, and it felt like he was struck with lightning, a mental and physical reaction burning down through him. The exchange was raw as Gabe dropped his walls again, eyes naked with both hope and desire.

“So I’m learning,” Gabriel responded, his voice husky.

On fire, Sam tore his gaze away and pushed out of his chair, realizing suddenly that their conversation was becoming muddied. Sam had made mistakes in this department before, so many mistakes when he allowed desire or intuition to fill in the gaps, instead of staying dogged about the truth. 

He cleared his voice to say goodnight, but perhaps out of kindness, Gabriel had already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from From Eden by Hozier.
> 
> This fic has a playlist! If you enjoy music, here are the songs that helped inspire and guide this fanfic: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7jNfMfZcNsuruH6mhpklZW?si=Tn5PrRwuRVWNy08duw-DCA


	10. Stop Before I Build A Wall Around Me

Approaching new levels of insomnia, Sam and Dean sat up that night together in the den watching the entire Harry Potter movie marathon on tv from start to finish, drinking whisky and (mostly Dean) throwing popcorn at the television. 

“I have no idea what’s going on,” Dean drunkenly admitted around the fourth or fifth movie.

Dutifully, Sam started to explain why Harry needed to break into the prefect’s bathroom, when Dean stopped him with an outstretched hand.

“Dude, no. I didn’t mean explain it to me.” 

“I’m not sure getting drunk was the best idea,” Sam mused, although a little too late for both of them.

“If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em?” Dean replied with a shrug, taking a swig straight from the bottle, then he started to pour one out on the floor for the spirits before Sam snatched the bottle out of his hands.

“Don’t waste good whisky, Dean,” Sam glared. “John Winchester at least taught us that much.”

Dean cackled, more tired than drunk, “Right you are,” then they raised a toast to John. 

“Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Sam started and Dean tipped his head back on the couch to tilt his head toward his brother. “What’s going on with you and Cas?”

His expression turning tart and far more sober quickly, Dean grumbled, “Way to harsh a buzz, Sammy.”

“I just - you two are obviously in some kind of argument or something.”

The alcohol in Dean’s stomach turned sour and he stared at the tv for a long while, probably longer than he realized, before he said, “We’ll be fine.”

“Come on, Dean,” Sam pushed. “You guys are like… normally kind of cute? And right now you’re obviously avoiding each other.”

Tiredness and too much whisky lowered Dean’s guard, and he gaped at Sam as he shot back, “Cute?”

Laughing at Dean’s exaggerated response, Sam reiterated, “Yeah. You look into each other’s eyes too long, and you are always finding reasons to brush by each other, and you leave the room at the same time too often. It’s fucking cute.”

Wow. Dean glared at his brother as he considered his words. Apparently Sam set the bar real low these days for what counted as chick flick bullshit. Dean reeled too long in silence, and Sam eventually pushed forward.

“Whatever,” he said, slapping hand down on the fabric of the couch impatiently. “Semantics aside. You’re stalling.”

Dean considered how to respond, weighing answers like ‘Sorry to ruin your chick lit dreams, but I think me and Cas might be done,’ or ‘it’s none of your fucking business.’ He eventually settled on, “I dunno, Sammy. People just go through shit.”

“Sure, but are you… actually working through it with him? Like, have you actually talked to him about anything? Because sometimes I think he needs it spelled out, like with dotted Ts and all the Is crossed.”

“Dude, we’re just sitting here watching some fucking tv getting drunk, and you have to turn it into a heart to heart. Quit psychoanalyzing me. I can handle things with my - with Cas.” 

He couldn’t help but wince at the almost slip. With his what? Whatever stupid thing he might have called Cas before, it didn’t matter now.

Finally, Sam held his hands up in surrender. 

“Sorry, man. I’m not trying to pry. I just want you to be happy. You’re my brother, and Cas - he’s basically my best friend.”

With painful clarity, Dean’s mind drifted back to Castiel’s words to him: “I’d like to stay in your life.” Of course, he wanted Cas in his life, in whatever way he could have him. Castiel had been an ally first, then a friend, and then he had been right there, as close to Dean as Sam was, as he became something else - partner, lover, boyfriend. He didn’t know what to fucking call it.

In all of this, though, he hadn’t thought much about what Cas was to Sam. He felt selfish and thoughtless.

“He’s my best friend too, after you,” Dean replied, trying to be reassuring.

“So you’ll talk to him, right?”

“Sure, Sammy. If that asshole comes back in one piece,” Dean grumbled, sinking down into the couch clutching the bottle of whisky close.

Sam grinned at him as if he was proving his point about characterizing them as “cute,” and Dean wished he was a lot more obliterated than he actually was.

Irresponsibility meant that Sam eventually dozed off on the couch while Dean developed a hangover as the booze wore off and the sun rose. After the final movie in the marathon ended, he padded off to the kitchen, shivering, to brew a full pot of coffee and foggily stare at it while it dripped. With coffee in one hand and a glass of water in the other, he went off to the Great Room to resurrect the fire. 

Once the logs caught, Dean glanced at his phone: eleven hours since Cas left and three hours since Sam nodded off. For the millionth time, he wished that prayer worked as a two-way communication tool. Then he considered how charitable he wanted to be to Sammy before he got his ass up. 

He couldn’t sit down, or he would absolutely fall asleep. He considered taking a walk back to town, after all if others could take unnecessary risks, so could he. 

Finally, he decided that he’d work on breakfast, and Sam would get until he was done to sleep. Of course, Dean could have put together two bowls of cereal, but because he was campaigning for the damn brother of the year award, he mixed together pancake batter, chopped up fresh fruit, started bacon in cast iron and scrambled some eggs. 

It was only because of the den’s proximity to the kitchen that he heard a muffled shout as he flipped a mishapen pancake. He sprinted off into the den, spatula still in hand, to find Sam waking slowly from a dream. Most likely a nightmare, but he glanced around the room still just in case.

Sam squinted at him in confusion and mumbled, “Hey.”

“You were shouting in your sleep,” Dean explained with a shrug.

As Sam’s confusion cleared and he sat up, he eyed Dean, “Were you going to defend me with a spatula?”

Glaring, Dean retorted, “No, but I will happily eat all of the breakfast I just made by myself.”

The promise of breakfast and coffee roused Sam from the couch and he followed Dean back into the kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee at the table while Dean saved a pancake from burning.

“These dreams suck,” Sam grumbled, holding his head in one hand. “Is it just me, or did they start out like a fun trip down memory lane for you and turn gradually into an absolute horror show?”

Given that Dean’s last dream had featured a truly awful Thanksgiving at the Campbells where Samuel slowly divided each of his family members one by one from the main group and slaughtered them, mistakenly believing they were werewolves, he had to agree. 

At this point, he’d seen things in his sleep that he could not unsee. Judging by Sam’s expression, he was feeling the same way. 

“Sorry, bud,” Dean commiserated, plopping a pancake down onto his plate. “Eat some butter. It’ll make you feel better.”

After they ate, Sam relieved Dean and Dean shuffled off to his bedroom, dead tired in spite of his many cups of coffee. As he drifted off to sleep, he thought about Cas and how in their life, you had to just be grateful that your family came home. Everything else was just trappings. 

  
  
  


Later that morning, Sam fired off rounds in the shooting range downstairs, enjoying the single-minded focus of the act as he tried to extinguish the still burning fire from his conversation with Gabriel the night before. He may or may not have been envisioning the archangel as the target, but it really wasn’t with murderous intent given that bullets couldn’t kill an angel. 

He was furious, but also intellectually intrigued, by the game of cat and mouse Gabe was playing with him. The icky feelings from his most recent dream only heightened that feeling, as well as the hangover, both of which he blamed on Gabriel even if he was uncertain if the former was his fault. Mostly though, he was angry with himself that the sense of mystery and danger that surrounded Gabriel was exciting to him.

At least Gabriel had yet to make an appearance today.

His fingers going numb from the recoil, he paused briefly to shake out his hands, then he lifted the gun again and nearly jumped out of his skin when someone appeared not directly in front of the target, but close enough.

“Goddamn, Cas! How many times do I have to tell you that you have to stay on this side of the range?” Sam dropped the gun to the table to clutch at his chest.

Castiel opened his mouth, and Sam jerked off his noise-cancelling headphones to hear his response. 

“- no virtue in that space versus this space given that bullets can’t harm me,” Castiel answered, and Sam felt his headache rebound. 

As his heart returned to its normal rhythm, he actually looked at Castiel and realized that the angel looked rough. Ignoring his own advice, he jumped over the small partition into the range as Castiel’s balance wavered.

“Hey, are you OK?” He asked, grabbing Castiel’s arm to support some of his weight. 

Up close, Castiel’s clothes were torn and wrinkled, but he looked whole, although very pale. 

“I will be. Can you help me upstairs?” 

“Let me,” Gabriel was there in an instant, flying the three of them upstairs to the Great Room, where Castiel promptly collapsed down into a chair. 

Given Gabriel’s propensity to show up at opportune moments, not always when he was called, Sam often wondered if Gabriel invisibly spied around the house. Of course, it could always be that he just felt Castiel’s presence in the house and responded to that. But Sam couldn’t help but feel like eyes were on him always. 

Gabriel met Sam’s eyes briefly and sidelong, and Sam shoved the musings away, paranoid that Gabriel could somehow read minds too. Then Gabe took a knee beside Cas’ chair and grabbed his wrist in an assessing manner, almost as if he was searching for a pulse.

“I was unable to reach Henry Winchester’s heaven,” Castiel began apologizing and Sam held up a hand to stop him.

“Hold up, are you OK?”

“He’s fine,” Gabriel responded, releasing Cas’ wrist, “He’ll just need time recharge.”

Sam glared at Gabriel, who met his eyes in neither a challenging nor intimidated gaze, but he was mollified when Castiel agreed.

“He’s right. I’ll be fine.”

“Ok, well, Dean will be pissed at us if I don’t wake him up to hear how it went, so let me just,” Sam waved a hand at the exit and then walked out of the room. 

Grimacing, Sam knocked on the door and then slowly slid it open. A sliver of light fell across the bed, where Dean was buried up to his nose in blankets and glowering at Sam with a single eye, like a dragon.

“I made you breakfast,” Dean accused angrily.

Sam almost laughed, “Cas is back. I thought you’d want to hear how it went.”

Grumbling, Dean sat up and Sam closed the door to return to the Great Room. A few moments later, Dean walked in, eyes bloodshot, saying, “Cas, we’ve got to talk about your timing.”

As soon as his eyes actually focused on Castiel, though, he dropped his joking tone and quick-stepped over, just about pushing Gabriel out of the way as he knelt near the chair in concern.

“Woah. Are you OK?”

“I am fine, Dean,” Castiel replied, repeating the same words for the third time looking tired, but not cross.

Clearing his throat, Dean stood again and glanced at Gabriel, who nodded at him in confirmation that Cas was indeed OK. 

“Are you sure -” Dean started.

“After I tell you what happened, I will rest and restore my grace,” Castiel stated, pursing his lips just a twinge of impatience. Dean’s mouth snapped shut audibly and he jokingly pulled a zipper on his lips.

“I did not make it to Henry Winchester’s heaven,” Castiel began again apologetically. “We ran into trouble before we could reach it, and Bethel was killed.”

Grimacing, Gabriel said, “Damn. If I’d known those were going to be our last words, I might have chosen them better.”

“She was right. Something is wrong with the host,” Castiel continued after a sympathetic look at Gabriel. “We entered through the garden and made our way to the hall where Henry Winchester’s soul resides. Many angels had abandoned their post - nothing was watched or guarded as it should have been.”

Gabriel appeared to take Cas’ words with great import. He exhaled a deep breath and started pacing. Surprised, Sam gazed at Gabe wondering why both of the angels were reactivating so severely.

Cas continued, “The garden was overgrown and untended. A portion of the woods in the garden had even been burnt down intentionally. In some of the halls, there were wandering souls, unnoticed by the angels.”

He told it all almost directly to Gabriel, although carefully as if it was stark news. Sam watched them both closely, noticing tension building in Gabe’s shoulders as he paced.

Trying to understand, Sam asked, “So heaven is a ghost town?”

“It appeared so at first, but we later discovered that many angels were, for lack of a better word, just up to their own devices.”

“Oohkay, so the angels were on a smoke break or something?” Dean prompted.

“Angels do not smoke, Dean,” Castiel intoned like Dean was slow, and Dean rolled his eyes.

“No, boys,” Gabriel cut in sharply, “Imagine heaven as if it’s run by a drill sergeant with a damn yard stick up his ass, because that’s how Michael ran heaven. Angels do not abandon their post and they don’t dick around. And they sure as hell don’t burn stuff down.”

“Ok, but it’s been a few years since old Mickey-homicidal-eyes was in charge up there,” Dean shrugged.

“Yes, but Raphael was his hand-picked successor, and Naomi was a servant of the seraphim in his watch,” Castiel explained. “It was unclear to me who was giving Naomi orders to control me until I returned last night, but Bethel and I had a run in with Israfil.”

Gabriel made a gagging face, “Fuck me now. If there was ever an angel that needed an ice pick lobotomy.”

Castiel diplomatically neither agreed nor disagreed, merely continued, “Unfortunately, the hall of souls where Henry Winchester’s heaven is located was still guarded, but Bethel believed that the angel would help us. Instead he reported us to Israfil and his faction.”

“So this Israfil guy is in charge up there now?” Sam clarified.

“No, I don’t believe so. I didn’t get the sense that anyone was in charge. More that there were just roving bands of angels doing well… whatever they wanted. Which is highly irregular. Angels were created to follow authority, it’s why they are so susceptible to corrupt leadership. They are not created for free will, like humans are.” 

“Beings of light,” Gabriel murmured, almost to himself.

Beings of light.

Castiel tilted his head as he considered Gabriel’s comment. Angels were essentially prototypical humans. They were created in God’s image - beings of pure light, with no agency to make decisions because, truly, they had only one decision they could make. They were beings of light - they could not weigh the darkness and the light as humans could.

Humans were created later, and while many angels believed they were lesser because they contained darkness and because they were far less powerful, humans were in fact a new and improved creation. Perhaps God had even created their dual nature because he recognized that he missed, even appreciated, his sister more than he realized once Lucifer had locked her away. 

The Winchesters continued the conversation around him as he thought, but he snapped back to whenever Sam asked.

“So what did Israfil do to you?”

Castiel paused for a long second, then he continued so quietly that the brothers had to lean in, “He destroyed the entire hall of souls we were in.”

Dean started to say, “That dick,” but he was interrupted when Gabriel’s grace flew out uncontrollably, sending a shock wave through the air that pushed all three of them back physically. 

Castiel witnessed his six wings explode back, the length of the greatest of Earth’s trees, in a display of fury. He felt certain that even Sam and Dean could see the shadow of them, the expression of power and rage was so raw. Light filled the archangel’s eyes, bright enough that both brothers had to look away.

The fire in the hearth extinguished with a hiss as though all of the oxygen left the room.

In spite of what Gabriel had told Bethel, Castiel wondered for a second if Gabriel might not take flight at that exact second and return to heaven as a righteous sword to strike down the wicked. 

Castiel stood, putting his hand on the arm of the chair to steady himself when his legs wobbled, and he reached over, gripping Gabriel’s arm with bone breaking force. His eyes snapped to Castiel’s, a terrible prismatic light in them that was utterly inhuman and remote. This was a creature of might and terror, more a force of nature than a sentient being, and they were all in danger. 

“That is anathema.” 

In spite of the otherworldly look in his eyes, Gabriel spoke in his vessel’s voice, clearly somewhat in control. Castiel felt relieved, even as he stretched out his wings between Gabriel and the brothers with great effort. He was tired and no match for Gabriel now. 

“Yes,” Castiel agreed simply. He spoke slowly and with gentleness, trying to bring his brother back to reality. “I was able to save the souls from destruction, although I had to send them to wander in the garden. And Bethel’s grace was extinguished.”

Violence and rage streamed off his grace in waves. He was both the angel of death who had culled cities at God’s command and the less pure, capricious wrath of a god who had walked the Earth for centuries. Gabriel was both more and less than an archangel.

He watched as Gabriel fought for control, and he thought of Gabriel’s lesser outburst in the Green Room and Bethel’s scathing rebuke of them in the basement. Perhaps all angels were experiencing some sort of infection or disease, and the final outcome was Israfil’s outright insanity.

Before Bethel had perished, as they creeped around a hall of souls, she told him, “I have only ever seen anything like this once before.”

But they ran out of time because that is when they had run into the guard who reported them to Israfil. He wondered now if she was referring to Lucifer.

Castiel had not been close to Lucifer, serving on a different watch. And he had been on Earth during Lucifer’s trial and banishment from heaven. He had virtually no first-hand experience with his brother until he had become a part of the Winchesters’ lives. 

Looking deep into Gabriel’s eyes, he saw the light burn so bright that it went dark at the center, like a supernova exploding light of every color away from a now extinguished core.

Slowly, Gabriel regained mastery over himself and his grace collapsed in on itself, folding back up neatly into his vessel alongside his wings. With a whoosh that felt like the air returning to the room, the fire reignited, crackling and warm.

Castiel released his grip on Gabriel’s arm and also dropped his wings, only then noticing both brothers standing behind him with their angel blades at the ready. 

Gabriel blinked his eyes and said, “I’m sorry. Went a little reactive there.” 

There was an awkward silence while they all took in a deep breather, and Gabe flicked one hand in the air, “I’m just gonna…” then he disappeared. 

“What the fuck was that?” Dean turned to Castiel the moment that Gabriel blinked away.

Castiel fell back in the chair, exhausted, and he felt Dean’s hands on him immediately helping ease him down. 

“His anger is understandable,” he said, but his voice was weak. Castiel closed his eyes. “Angels have been vying for power since our Father left, but to destroy parts of heaven, especially a hall of souls, is unnatural and a horrible sin. It has never happened before in all of time.”

“Well next time he needs to take his damn smiting angel routine outside,” Dean grumbled, his hand still resting on Castiel’s forearm in a far more gentle reflection of his grip on Gabriel from earlier.

“I agree,” Castiel said in a near murmur. “I will speak with him when I have… recovered.”

He peeled his eyes open briefly to glance at Sam, who was oddly quiet, but he found he didn’t have much energy to ponder the finer points of Sam’s theories or Gabriel’s anger anymore. Every atom in his being was focused into a single point: Dean’s warm touch on his arm through his coat.

“Alright, off to bed with you,” Dean patted him and then took his hand away.

Safe and his message communicated, Castiel allowed himself to slip away.

  
  
  


Castiel appeared to slide into a trance where he sat as Dean realized that he didn’t know where to take him. He was embarrassed to realize that Castiel did not have a room of his own here in the bunker. 

Dean felt a wave of self-recrimination at the thought - he had always just thought of his room as their room. They had been sharing a bed since before he and Sam even discovered the bunker. Even though it felt absurd to worry about an angel having his own room when he spent most of his time just tucked away in an invisible realm, it pained him to realize that even Gabriel had a room, and Cas did not.

“Here, I’ll help with him,” Sam broke the silence and got an elbow under Castiel’s arm. Dean took Cas’ other arm, and they hoisted him to his feet.

As they stepped into the hallway, Sam automatically started steering them toward Room 11. Dean had no great alternatives - the other beds didn’t even have sheets on them - and he really didn’t want to navigate a follow-up conversation with Sam about why Castiel was sleeping in a different room. So he just got with the program and they maneuvered Castiel into the bed he and Dean had been sharing until a few days ago.

As if it made perfect sense, Sam stepped outside and left them alone then, saying, “I’ll stay on watch.”

Dean stood over the bed feeling like an interloper in his own room. He knew it was unnecessary, but it felt strange to leave Cas sleeping in his coat, so he pulled his arms out of it and tossed it over a chair. Then he pulled the covers up over him.

Dean was exhausted and still hungover. Then Cas had come home injured, spent. 

With a sick urgency, he needed to tell Castiel his revelations of the last few days - his angry reaction from a few days ago had been selfish and unfair. Cas had tried to tell him gently, and Dean couldn’t blame him for not loving him, in fact Cas might not even be capable of it. 

Dean wished he’d had better control over his feelings, first and foremost because he didn’t want to make Cas feel bad for prompting the inevitable. He was an idiot, and now they both knew, and the ironic thing is that he’d never realized just how much he wanted Cas until Cas was ready to move on to better things - to all of the things he deserved. He didn’t want anyone, least of all Cas, to see that truth. It was too raw and revealing.

And fuck, of course he wanted Cas in his life however he could have him. He needed Cas to know he was family no matter what.

The responsibility to make that known rooted him to the room, even though he was desperate for sleep and his bed was occupied. He needed to rewrite that initial reaction with one that was more reassuring and less vulnerable.

Leaving didn’t seem like an option, especially knowing the awful look of concern and pity Sam would throw at him if he found him sleeping on the couch. With a long sigh, Dean propped his feet up on the corner of the bed and settled in to try to sleep in the chair. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from I Need a Forest Fire by Bon Iver.
> 
> This fic has a playlist! If you enjoy music, here are the songs that helped inspire and guide this fanfic: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7jNfMfZcNsuruH6mhpklZW?si=Tn5PrRwuRVWNy08duw-DCA


	11. Ask Him How Many Fingers Does He Have

Castiel spent many long hours in reverie within the astral expanse of his being, weaving his grace back together like a spider connecting the joints of a web in the moonlight. Israfil was an immensely powerful seraphim who Castiel never imagined besting in an outright fight. Surprisingly, Gabriel had been right that Castiel could hold his own in heaven, although he had not realized he was capable of it until the hall shook with distant thunder and shattered around them, unspooling thousands of individual heavens.

The act was meant to unmake Castiel and Bethel instantly, but Castiel was untouched. What strained him to his breaking point was grasping each of the human souls and transporting them to the garden. Weakened to the point of collapse, he’d plummeted through the garden gate and rocketed back to the Earth like an asteroid. 

He rested in almost utter oblivion, knowing he was in the bunker, but once his grace was restored enough for him to at least operate his mundane body unaided, he started coming to. 

His eyes snapped open, on guard, then he eased immediately when he saw the familiar accoutrements of Dean’s room. Dean’s presence was there too, sitting in a chair beside the bed, head lolled back against his shoulder, drooling a little.

Castiel had heard humans speak of “heart ache” or “heart break,” and he thought it made little sense. Emotions arose from the soul, not the heart, which was just an organ that pumped blood and oxygen through the body, but he understood that humans often used idioms to give meaning to phenomena that were ineffable.

And so, his heart ached looking at Dean, while he was here in Dean’s bed as he had been so many times. Everything felt so familiar, but he felt unfamiliar to himself. He never envisioned letting go of Dean would be so difficult. 

Finding that he was still tired and unsteady, he pushed up in the bed instead of simply leaving and leaned back against the headboard. Always watchful, Dean jerked at the movement and opened his eyes. 

Castiel watched him closely as Dean looked around in confusion, most likely wading through the memories of a dark dream. Finally, his eyes focused on Castiel and he smiled, weakly.

“Hey. Welcome back.”

“Hello, Dean.”

He watched Dean’s guard settle back into place, as it always did, relishing the brief seconds of vulnerability Dean displayed every morning.

Castiel wanted to kiss him maybe more than he had ever wanted to kiss Dean before. He gripped the feeling tightly, almost impossibly, to prevent himself from acting on it.

“How are you feeling?”

“Improved, but still weakened. I expended a lot of power.”

“With Gabe going nuclear, we never got the whole story. Did you kill Israfil?” Dean asked him, quietly, pulling his socked feet off the bed and leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. 

“No, although I would have. I was too focused on saving the human souls as their heavens collapsed. I did not have any extra energy to go back after Israfil.”

The intimacy, the familiarity of having a quiet conversation here in Dean’s bed was excruciating. Was this the last time they’d do this? The horror of what was happening in heaven, what was happening to the host, was a distant concern compared to the weight of being here in this room filled with longing for what was.

“Are you going to go back to try to finish it?”

“No, not until I find out what’s going on anyway. If all of the angels are being impacted by some kind of affliction, I cannot just go back and wipe them all out.”

Dean focused on his words and Castiel felt the conversation shift. It had been quiet and warm, but now the hunter in Dean was activated by something he’d said.

“Affliction?” 

“Yes. Israfil has always been a ‘dick,’ but something is wrong with the host. You have witnessed it yourself with Bethel and…” Castiel paused. He didn’t want to unduly influence Dean against Gabriel, after all, he’d seen Gabriel’s grace only days ago and sensed no ill intent directed toward them. But he also didn’t want to dissemble with Dean. He deserved to know. “And Gabriel.”

Dean accepted his statement with little surprise. He had never trusted Gabriel anyway.

Whistling, Dean smirked, “Hate to say I told you so.”

“Yes, you did tell me,” Castiel grumbled. “Ultimately, we learned nothing more about the bunker.”

“Ahh, the sweet sensation of being right,” Dean joked.

Bantering with Dean felt so normal that Castiel had to remind himself that he was intentionally putting some distance between the two of them in order to let Dean go. Castiel repeated to himself several times:

He is not yours.

He is not yours.

He is not yours.

As Castiel emerged from thought, he realized that he’d let their banter fall flat and that the air had become awkward.

“Cas, I wanted…” Dean started soberly, and Castiel held his breath recognizing yet another shift in Dean’s tone, “I wanted to tell you that I was angry the other day, so I didn’t respond very well and I’m sorry.”

Castiel felt torn about his apology, appreciating that Dean was no longer angry with him, but also perhaps a little regretful that Dean’s reaction hadn’t been even stronger. He wanted Dean to be downright furious at him. Castiel felt sick, almost angry himself that Dean was here now, trying to take back that bitter reaction and talking to him calmly.

He was shocked to realize that he wanted Dean to be angry. Anger was a dark emotion. He did not want to burden Dean with it. And yet when people were incredibly hurt, especially Dean, they lashed out in anger. 

It was almost a revelation to recognize that he wanted Dean to hurt because of him.

“No matter what happens between us, with this,” Dean gestured as if somehow a little hand wave meant intimacy in sign language, “You will always be family. And we will always want you here.”

The words did buoy him, because he had been concerned that he would need to find a new home, a new purpose. But he was consumed with his disappointment about Dean’s newfound calm, and his concern about that disappointment.

Rather than answer, his eyes flickered over Dean’s face, trying to read for hurt, seeing just forgiveness and reassurance. Of course, he knew Dean was a master of repression and unasked-for needs, but applying Occam’s Razor to this issue, the simplest answer was likely true. Dean did not love him, not in a reciprocal way anyway, and now he was relieved to be free of Castiel. Just as Amara said.

Resentment gathered in him, even as he felt profound relief. It sat sourly inside him and he felt uncomfortable and afraid of himself.

“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel answered finally. “I will always want to be here.”

“Alright,” Dean stood up gruffly. “I’m gonna go relieve Sam. Feel free to stay as long as you need.”

After he left, Castiel ambled out of the bed, testing his balance and finding it sound. He thought about joining Sam and Dean, knowing that Sam would have thought up another angle or approach already. 

But ultimately, the minor disturbances and creatures they had experienced so far felt insignificant compared to what he had seen in heaven and in Gabriel. All of heaven’s remaining might could not challenge Gabriel, the single archangel still in play, and if he was also afflicted, it was an urgent matter.

Steeling himself to finally get the truth from his brother, he made his way into the Green Room, the one place he knew for certain would be Winchester free.

  
  
  


Sad and relieved, Dean told Sam to hit the hay and then puttered around finding things to keep his hands busy. 

A mood of despondency had descended over the bunker at their recent failures, completely at odds with the evergreen garlands, twinkling lights, stockings over the fireplace, stupid santa statues and light up angels. All that was missing was a Christmas tree, and thank God for that. At least Gabriel had stopped with the snow.

Christmas was getting closer, but cheer was definitely at a low.

Dean honestly preferred to keep his investment in Christmas low because it was bound to disappoint or be completely overshadowed by some catastrophe. That was the Winchester way.

Growing up, there’d been many times he’d set out to plan something for Christmas day, even if it was just going to a movie or sledding or a simple exchange of gifts, and then Dad had rode in and carried them off somewhere. He preferred to keep things simple and give Sam very few expectations. He could count the Christmases that had turned out as planned on one hand, and he was on the other side of 35-years-old at this point.

Puttering around the bunker with anxious energy was a familiar pastime for him, but now that his conversation with Cas had gone so well, he was desperate to hang onto the calm he’d displayed and shove all of the uglier, darker feelings deep down.

First things first, he needed to get a bedroom made up for Cas. He knew the angel didn’t sleep, but the events of yesterday had demonstrated he sometimes needed a bed. Also, it felt like an important gesture to further demonstrate to Cas that he was a part of their family no matter what. 

In the hallway, he hesitated knowing they didn’t have sheets for every bed in the bunker. There were still clean sheets tucked away in a drawer in Charlie’s old bedroom. As Dean considered it, he felt like Charlie would approve. 

Of course, moving a hot chick in there probably would have been Charlie’s first pick. But a badass angel of the Lord had to be a close second. Plus Charlie loved Cas. She always thought he was hysterical. 

Settled, Dean opened the door to Charlie’s room and left it ajar, allowing some fresh air to circulate in the cold, stale room. The midnight blue sheets were folded as neatly as Dean was capable of folding, and they smelled a bit like cedar after being tucked away for so long. He took his time tucking them over the bed, focusing his mind on the act and pushing away the why of it anytime it floated up. 

Charlie had picked out the enormous blue flannel comforter herself. Stuffed with down, she’d insisted it was necessary because the bunker was always “cold as Hoth.” 

Satisfied, he straightened Charlie’s copy of Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince where she’d left it on the bedside table, and said, “Thanks for sharing your room, kiddo,” then he went to find something else to occupy his mind. 

Wandering back to the Great Room, he idly returned books and chairs to their appropriate places, then he recognized that the firewood rack by the hearth was empty. Almost chipper at the discovery, Dean bounded off to the store room to gather more wood. 

Finding things to do around the bunker meant he didn’t have to think.

It was gratifying to realize no wood was in the store room either - being homebound for this long was so foreign that these minute chores were novel. There had never been time before for any of these humble house tasks and repairs. 

Luckily, he kept his heavy coat and gloves in the hall closet, because there was no way he was going back to his bedroom until he was certain Cas was on his feet again and not there. His coat was still equipped inside with his machete, and his angel blade was always with him.

Once he was sufficiently bundled, he hastened down the stairs and out the door. His sense of time these days was shot because he was surprised to find that the sun was setting outside in an orange glow. He turned around and fetched a flashlight from the hall closet, putting it in his pocket just in case.

The shed was only a few hundred yards away from the house, in the sparse patch of trees that surrounded the bunker separating the terrain from the vast prairie around it. He crunched through the snow as the golden glow faded to a blue twilight, the first stars peeking out in the night. 

Without consciously deciding, he found himself humming the opening notes of Paint It, Black to keep himself from thinking. Thinking led to a whole tangle of emotions he needed to avoid. He just wanted to be what Castiel needed - a brother, a friend. He didn’t have needs. Sure didn’t.

The shed was actually a cement shelter dug into the ground that was distinctly snakey and dark. There was a heavy padlock on the metal door. Dean flicked on the flashlight and held the compact maglite in his mouth as he fumbled his key into the lock.

Like the bunker, the shed had only a few practical items that you might expect from a shed in Kansas - a shovel, some firewood, some gardening gloves and an old rickety wheelbarrow with wooden wheels. Everything else in it was something weird and arcane, or a weapon. 

There was a whole row of mounted tridents and ritual spears, an old school flail that looked disturbingly used, a crossbow (unfortunately without fletching) and a flame thrower.

Dean was dying to find an occasion for the flamethrower. He had even fueled it up earlier that year and tested it out. And maybe, just maybe, when Dean had gone outside, he’d been halfway hoping for a run in with something he could hack to little bits. 

He pushed over the wheelbarrow and started loading firewood into it, taking the time to select the best-looking logs, trying to drag out the task even as he started to shiver a little bit from the cold. The tops of his ears were so cold they hurt, and Dean wished there’d been a hat in the hall closet too. 

But the cold was also distracting, even cleansing, and the pain of it as well as his humming kept his brain occupied.

It was a blessing, a godsend really, when his ears pricked up at a sound. 

He peeked his head out the door and saw the snow collapsing as something dug its way out. Of course there was a body buried out in the woods by the bunker. This was a creepy bunker after all. And right now bodies in the woods had a good likelihood of reanimating into a draugr. 

Illuminated by the barest peak of the moon hitting the snow, fingers flailed against the snow and dirt, eventually freeing a screeching head. He could always just go and stomp on the head immediately, or chop it off at the neck, but what was the fun in that? Plus the damn things were fast and just as soon as he’d thought it, the whole creature’s torso was free from the frozen ground.

Under his breath, Dean muttered the immortal words of John McClane, “Yipee ki yay, motherfucker.”

Jumping into action, he threw off his gloves and pulled his machete out from its sheath. Then he pulled the flame thrower off the wall mount and leaned it against the doorway. This draugr had the poor fortune to attack a hunter right outside a shed fully stocked with a number of creative ways to die.

He looked up just in time to hack off the skeletal hand before it closed around his throat. He slammed a boot into the draugr and flung it back several feet, sending a couple of ribs skittering off into the snow from the impact. 

Chasing after the draugr, he could now see that the creature had friends. 

Several shadows sprinted through the woods from the direction of the road, as if they’d come here all the way from town. Dean took a step back to brace himself.

With lethal speed, they flew through the snow toward him. Once they were close enough he swung and amputated the nearest draugr’s leg. They didn’t slow down, just threw their emaciated bodies at him.

He grunted as he absorbed the impact and braced his back leg to keep his balance. His machete flashed through the air, fending off hands as they clawed at him. He hacked at heads and necks as teeth ripped at his clothes. 

Most monsters would at least stagger at the loss of a limb. He cut off fingers and arms and even swung low at thighs and kneecaps, but he was still eventually overcome and dragged down to the ground by the onslaught. 

A mouth sunk into the flesh of his abdomen with a bruising pinch as his jacket rode up.

Bringing the hilt of the machete down on the draugr biting his belly, his fist went straight through its skull and into something squishy. He resisted the urge to shake the ooze off his hand. 

He elbowed another draugr, freeing himself briefly from their grasp. Using the brief seconds, he scuttled back to the entrance of the shed through the snow.

“Alright, you fast fuckers,” he grumbled as he got his hand around the flamethrower. They clambered across the ground after him and over him again before he could raise the flamethrower. 

That was the one problem with range weapons. You needed range.

His coat ripped right along the shoulder seam as dirty fingers wrenched him. He felt a bruising bite to his calf through his pant leg. 

Focus.

He reached out and grabbed the leg of the wheelbarrow. He yanked, upending the tottering load of wood on top of the draugr and himself. He shoved a piece off him and retreated further into the shed.

Of course, he realized that firing up a flamethrower while he was inside a shed was a poor idea, but he didn’t have a lot of time to consider his options. 

He jumped to his feet. Jamming his thumb down on the safety, he rammed down on the trigger with his other fingers 

A jet of singing heat flew out in an eight foot stream from his hands. He started to sweat immediately, the room bathed in scorching heat. A shriek filled the air as he rained fire down on the draugr. He wondered if they were even screaming or it was the moisture in their bodies evaporating.

It was so freaking awesome he had to laugh, but it quickly turned into a fit of coughing as the moisture in the air scalded his throat.

They melted under the blaze, skin falling off the bone. Bones clattered to the ground, incinerating to dust. Of course, the shed was now scorching and some of the wood was catching. He continued coughing, smoke filling the shed.

His head started to get hazy, and he decided to make a run for it. He sprinted through the fiery maelstrom, jumped over the bodies and vaulted straight through the exit into the snow. He fell into the drift outside and gulped in the air, trying to clear his head while still keeping an eye on the entrance to the shed. He rolled in the snow like a dog, cooling his overheated clothes and skin.

Only two of the draugr crawled out after him, melting limbs barely carrying them over the snow. Dean sat up, lifting the flamethrower off the ground to shower more fire over them.

The experience was much more enjoyable in the twenty degree cold outside the shed. 

Eventually, the scorched remains stopped moving in the patch of brown, slushy grass. He let up on the flamethrower. 

Taking a few deep breaths, he pushed up to his feet, his bare fingers aching as the cold started to set in again. He inspected his work for any signs of movement. There were two piles of gore and sinew, completely unrecognizable as bodies, outside the door and then inside the shed.

He remembered the townspeople talking about Mrs. Kathy and wondered if he’d just incincerated her remains. 

Shrugging, he started to make his way back to the shed to shovel out the carnage. 

That’s when a sharp, clenching pain shot through his gut as something grabbed him from behind and shoved a knife right into his back. Surprise shot through him, just as surely as the pain, because he hadn’t seen or heard another thing in the woods.

A voice murmured, right in his ear, “I’d heard of the famous Dean Winchester, but that right there. That was epic.”

Demons. He didn’t need to see their eyes, he could smell the sulfur.

He ignored the pain and slammed his heel back into the demon’s knee cap, with a grunt, the hand released him. He threw himself off the blade, feeling blood abruptly release in a hot stream, and he rolled away to his knees. 

He got a good look as he unsheathed his angel blade.

Shit.

There were three demons, one of them in the body of the woman from the bank with the high pile of curly hair.

He exhaled shakily. Blood loss was already making him dizzy, but goddamn he did not want to call in the cavalry. He had dealt with worse odds under worse circumstances. He didn’t need Cas, and he sure as hell wasn’t calling Gabriel.

“If you’d heard of me, you wouldn’t have come here,” Dean growled.

Just as Dean lunged forward with the knife, their heads fell back and they started vomiting black smoke into the night. He stumbled to a stop, confused, as his sight went dim around the edges.

“What the hell now?” He groused, blade still tight in his hand even while his legs trembled.

“Now is that any way to greet a friend?”

The three bodies collapsed in front of him, dead, and behind them stood Crowley dressed in his typical black peacoat. He quirked an eyebrow at Dean, who promptly collapsed face first into the snow.

Dean felt himself being hauled up by the arm and Crowley dug a shoulder underneath his armpit to hoist him up.

Grumbling, Dean feebly tried to shove him away, “I can walk on my own.”

“Alright, let’s see,” Crowley abruptly dropped him again. Dean’s vision was impaired, but he envisioned Crowley standing over him tapping his foot while Dean tried to get his arms underneath him once, then twice, and collapsed back into the snow both times.

“This is just sad.”

This time hauling him up by the collar of his jacket like he was scruffing a puppy, Crowley dragged him through the snow and back toward the entrance of the bunker.

Crowley tried the door handle, finding it locked. He pushed Dean up against the wall, holding him there with one hand while he scrabbled around through Dean’s pockets for the key.

Dean didn’t make it easy, pawing away Crowley’s hands and growling.

“Relax, Princess. I’m not trying to get at your dangly bits,” Crowley joked, eventually getting his hands on the keys. “Might be a demon, but I am surprisingly not much for blood play.”

Crowley slammed open the door to the bunker, and Dean fell inside, trying to make it look dignified by catching himself against the wall, although his legs wobbled and he still slid down. 

“Moose! Come fetch your Squirrel. And bring the trench-coated sycophant with you. He’s bleeding out on this lovely mid-century puce carpet,” Crowley shouted.

Castiel appeared in an instant, his eyes full of light, ready to smite Crowley on-sight. It was a sign of how out of it Dean was that he didn’t even jump.

Spotting Dean, he dropped to a crouch in front of him and the light faded from his eyes, leaving nothing but breathless concern.

“ _ What did you do? _ ” Cas hissed, although he didn’t even look at Crowley, focusing all of his attention on Dean. He grabbed Dean’s face with steel hands and peered into his eyes, presumably to see if he was in shock, not just to share a moment. Then he tilted Dean to his side to inspect the source of the blood flow.

“Don’t give me that look, kitten. I didn’t stab your boyfriend in the back,” Crowley met Castiel’s glare with aplomb. “Are you going to stop that bleeding or what?”

Sam wasn’t long behind Cas, sliding around into the foyer in a dead sprint.

“I… can’t,” Castiel glanced up at Sam with concern. “I’ve stabilized him somewhat, but I can’t do anything further in my current state.”

“Well bugger. You sure did pick a moment to blow your angelic load on something else.”

“ **_What did you do?!_ ** ” Sam shouted, echoing Cas unknowingly, Ruby’s dagger in his hand.

“Not too quick on the uptake are we?  **I SAVED YOUR BROTHER’S LIFE, YOU BLOODY IMBECILE.** Now if you’ll put away the damn knife, we need to put the angel on the charger.”

Cas had wadded up his coat and pressed it, just shy of bone breaking, against the wound. Dean’s vision was fuzzing out into black for longer periods of time, and the others’ words floated by him. He picked them out of the air, delayed, and put each sentence together slowly.

Woozy, Dean blinked up at him, trying to suggest the obvious, but he just gurgled a bit of blood instead. Cas jerked his gaze back toward him with concern and shook his head, “Don’t talk, Dean.”

Dean narrowed his eyes, or at least he thought he was narrowing his eyes, and sighed in frustration, although it really just resulted in him spitting a little blood out on his chest.

Furiously concentrating, Sam paced from one side of the foyer to the other. Once. Twice. Then he came to a sudden stop.

“Oh shit, Gabriel.”

Throwing his hand out feebly, Dean gurgled, “YES!”

Within seconds, Gabriel walked into the foyer saying, “I gotta say I…” then he stopped dead, gaping at the blood. Striding over, he tsked, “How many times have we discussed this, Dean-O? You stick  _ them  _ with the pointy end, not the other way around.”

Leaning over Castiel, who made no attempt to move, Gabriel booped Dean on the nose. A soft light emanated from Gabriel’s finger and travelled through his nose, then it rushed through his bloodstream with a tingle. The blood vessels and muscle stitching back together was painful, but brief, and he still felt weak and dizzy after, like he’d donated blood after drinking a pot of coffee. 

He sagged against the wall and Cas relaxed his hold, letting his bloodstained coat crumple to the floor. Sam just stared at him in shock for several seconds.

“Well fuck me sideways. I thought all of the archangels had gone the way of the dodo,” Crowley gaped at Gabriel.

“Anyone notice there’s a demon in our bunker?” Gabriel faced off with Crowley, crossing his arms over his chest.

Crowley puffed up, presumably to launch into his King of Hell, thank you very much, spiel, but Sam cut him off.

“This is Crowley. He… comes in handy sometimes.”

“Moose, you have a real way with words. A little appreciation would be nice every once in a while.”

“Thank you,” Dean grated out, easing out of his blood soaked coat and shirt. He glanced at both Crowley and Gabriel, resentfully, sharing the thanks between both of them. His shirt had absorbed so much blood it was dripping, leaving spreading stain on the carpet. 

His voice was still thready as he asked, “Why are you here, Crowley?”

“I came to warn you that something is rotten in the state of Kansas, but it seems I appeared too late,” Crowley replied, noticing and then brushing a bit of snow off the shoulder of his black peacoat. “This place is lit up like a beacon. I’m surprised it’s not swarming already with demons and all variety of evil.” 

“You were attacked by demons?” Sam asked Dean.

Levering a hand against the ground, Dean stood up. Cas got up with him, hovering a hand near his elbow in case he needed help, but not actually touching him. Once Dean was on his feet, he leaned against the wall for balance, and Cas stepped away, not meeting his eyes.

“Yeah, but there were draugr first. That’s why the demons took me by surprise. Knife to the back before I even knew they were there.”

Dean was amazed that he could even be taken by surprise anymore. And yet, he’d always known that after all of the trials they’d overcome and enormously powerful beings they’d faced, he’d ultimately die in some undignified way like just getting stabbed by a run of the mill demon. When you were a hunter, that’s what living long enough to get old meant.

“Draugr? As in reanimated dead people? That’s very high diction coming from you, Squirrel,” Crowley cocked an eyebrow at Dean.

Dean rolled his eyes while Sam filled in, “We have a working theory that the Wild Hunt may be responsible for whatever is going on around here. Draugr are known to spawn when they ride through a town.”

“Just looked like some smoked zombies to me. Aren’t you boys a little too old to believe in fairy stories?” 

Sam bit back defensively, “The Wild Hunt is well documented by a number of reliable sources, including generations of Men of Letters.”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist. Forgive me some skepticism when someone pulls out a story that little Irish grannies tell the bairns to keep them from going outside at night.” 

“The Wild Hunt is real,” Gabriel cut in with finality.

“Doesn’t explain the demons though, does it?” Crowley observed. 

“Isn’t that your area of expertise?” Dean deadpanned.

“Not the foggiest. Although I’m surprised your new feathered errand boy here doesn’t already know,” Crowley pointed a finger at Gabriel, then he tossed his head in Castiel’s direction. “Seems like a real trade up from the old model.” 

Dean watched Cas’ eyes narrow dangerously, and he briefly fantasized about Cas finally just wasting Crowley. 

By contrast, Gabriel assessed Crowley cooly, then stated, “I like this demon. He’s funny.”

It was difficult to read Crowley’s expression, but it was either terror or hatching a sure-to-fail plot to bind yet another powerful being to his will.

“Woah woah woah. Can’t blame you for thinking this looks like a good ride, angel, but omnipotent sociopaths aren’t so much my thing anymore.”

Terror then.

“I see you’ve met my brothers,” Gabriel grinned, displaying each tooth deliberately. 

Dean cut in, “Not that I’m not glad you came by in time to save my ass, but unless you have anything else to share with the class,” he finished by gesturing at the door.

“Touchy,” Crowley replied archly. “Look, keeping an eye on you two is just good business. You always seem to be at the epicenter of events that are bound to  _ cock up my day _ .”

“So you came to spy on us,” Dean filled in the blank.

“Well, you can choose to see the glass half empty.”

Sam, who had gone oddly silent, was just gazing at the proceedings with a shell-shocked expression. Dean was certain he looked just as bad, but Sam looked damn tired with dark circles under his eyes and disheveled hair. The angels, of course, never looked any different, with the exception of Castiel’s white shirt cuffs, which had long streaks of red blood on them. 

“So you’re saying that demons are somehow attracted to the bunker right now?” 

“Moths to a flame,” Crowley affirmed. “And the pull to this place has been growing stronger. At this rate, you’ll have half of hell standing outside your door in a week’s time.”

The weight of Crowley’s statement sunk into the room like a lodestone. 

Still weak, Dean’s mind spun and he leaned back more heavily against the wall for support. It was extremely maddening to have so many random occurrences that didn’t seem to be piecing together. They had about a million leads to follow, but were they all related or were they just at the center of a giant clusterfuck right now?

Dean needed time to sit down and process. He needed time for Sam to be able to sit down and process too, who was honestly way better at finding the commonality and linking it back to some obscure lore. Mostly he just needed to eat and drink something because he was sure he’d just lost a few pints of blood.

There were all kinds of weighted looks being passed around the room in front of him, but Dean didn’t have the wherewithal to follow their meaning.

“Can you hold them off to buy us some time?” Cas asked. 

“I can try, but hell is vast and, as you can imagine, rule of law isn’t exactly absolute down there.”

“We won’t need long. A few days,” Cas assured. 

Dean watched dully as Sam’s head whipped toward Cas in shock.

Then Gabriel snapped his fingers, saying, “Begone, demon,” and banished Crowley back to hell. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Fat Chance by Mothers.
> 
> This fic has a playlist! If you enjoy music, here are the songs that helped inspire and guide this fanfic: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7jNfMfZcNsuruH6mhpklZW?si=Tn5PrRwuRVWNy08duw-DCA


	12. Oh Santa, I've Been Killing Just For Fun

Chalk it up to sleep deprivation or his brother almost dying (again,) but from the point that Gabriel confirmed the existence of the Wild Hunt, Sam’s ears started ringing. 

He found it difficult to concentrate on Dean and Crowley’s repartee, instead all of the disparate points of information just flew around his brain in slow motion. At this point, his head was about to explode with unasked questions and growing suspicions.

As Gabriel expelled Crowley from the bunker, Sam felt the world around him collapse into a single reality. Obviously, Gabriel was at the center of all things. Sam had a number of working theories going, but he hadn’t had enough proof to confront the angel with to ensure that he would fess up. Gabriel was slippery and horribly powerful, and it was yet to be seen if he had any ill-intent.

Time was up, though. It was up the moment that Dean had stumbled into the bunker, bleeding out. It seemed like Gabriel knew that too.

Whatever secrets Gabriel was hanging onto, they needed to know them now.

“It’s time we had a family meeting,” Gabriel informed them, dead serious, and dropped his hands down on Sam and Dean’s shoulders.

Sam’s hand was halfway to his angel blade and his heart was thumping up into his throat as he whipped around him to figure out where Gabriel had transported them too. With a deep sigh, he recognized they had just reappeared in the Great Room. 

Cas materialized beside them, glancing apologetically at Sam. 

Sam’s eyes narrowed at him, “What the hell, Cas?”

At the end of the day, they’d all been through too much to trust each other implicitly. OK sure, they trusted each other, but who knew when someone was possessed or soulless or brain hacked or whatever. Sam shuffled just the smallest bit closest to his brother, weighing the fastest way to banish the two angels if they needed to.

“I had suspicions, just like you,” Castiel explained, hands held out in a placating gesture. “But Gabriel… showed me the truth last night. We hadn’t had time to discuss it with you yet.”

Gabriel strode over to a table and flopped down in a chair.

“I haven’t been entirely upfront with you,” Gabriel confessed, as if to the entire room, but his eyes were locked on Sam. 

“Well, if that isn’t the least surprising twist of the year,” Dean bit back. 

“I came here for help,” Gabriel waved his hand, a little white flag appearing in it. 

Sam felt anger boiling up to the surface and over.

“Help,” he echoed. “You have been cavorting around our home, acting like you just innocently dropped by to deliver Christmas cheer while we’ve been haunted and attacked.  _ And you need our help? _ ”

He was a tumble of emotions. There was curiosity - obviously, he’d always known there was more going on with Gabriel’s visit than he had admitted. He wanted to know the truth, down to his very bones. But he was enraged too.

Angry at Gabriel for allowing them to run around like idiots while he could offer a clue. Angry at himself for not ending this charade earlier.

“This isn’t something I’m in control of. None of it is,” Gabriel replied. “If I was here to harm any of you, you’d already be dead.”

“Get to the point, buddy, because I’ve got an angel blade here and about this much patience left,” Dean groused.

Rueful, Gabriel said, “This is not how I wanted to have this conversation. Damn demons and their poor timing.”

With a flourish of Gabriel’s hand, the fireplace roared up and started crackling, adding a warmth to the room. The twinkling lights that wound up the columns seemed to glow just a little brighter. A strange feeling crept up Sam’s spine as he recalled Gabriel tossing the lights up to him while he stood on the mezzanine just a couple of weeks ago.

Gabriel’s tone became lighter, more playful. 

“Listen, boys, it’s been a few good million turns around the sun, but this is the end. You’re experiencing the psychic fallout of an archangel going full-on Caligula.”

Realization dawning, Sam murmured, “Something is wrong with the host.”

“Bingo, Sammy,” Gabriel pointed at him with a wink. Sam did not return the good humor.

Stalking off to the corner of the room and pacing back, Sam took in several deep breaths. If Gabriel wanted to kill them, he could have, easily. In fact, he could have just not showed up to heal Dean earlier when Sam called him. Of course, this all called Castiel into question too, which was a far more troublesome consideration, but one thing at a  time here.

What was happening to the host, and how long had Gabriel been aware? 

Sam sat down at the table across from Gabriel and said, “Explain.”

“Where to start,” Gabriel mused, rubbing his beard absently. 

The Great Room whipped into an old school classroom with a dusty chalkboard at the front of the room. 

Gabe stood behind an oversized wooden desk that looked worse for the wear, scuffs on the corners and worn legs, with stacks of books piled around the edges. He, Dean and Cas were all stuffed into tiny student arm desks. They were so short that his legs had to stretch straight out - unable to bend beneath the desk.

Colorful posters of letters spelled out the alphabet on the wall, and Sam had a fleeting thought about whether Gabriel had chosen an elementary school classroom purposefully or unintentionally. 

“Alright class,” Gabe continued, thick-rimmed glasses perched on his nose and a pointer in one hand. “An angel is a being of pure light. Many supernatural beings, particularly the most powerful, are composed of mostly light or darkness.”

He drew two boxes on the board, and he shaded one in with white chalk while the other was left empty. 

“When Amara laid her cosmic whammy on Chuck, humans saw the sun began to die, but the impact was much farther reaching. The balance was tipped, and all beings of light are less stable.”

He grabbed the eraser and pulled it from the empty box through the inside of the white, chalk box, tracing a streak of empty, green chalkboard straight through the middle.

Straining to escape the vice of the student desk, Dean gritted out, “Get. to. the. point.”

“There is a darkness in the host,” Gabriel concluded. “I knew something was wrong before I came here, but I thought maybe I was the only one affected.”

Sam’s wheels turned, trying to decide which question to ask first. 

“Why would you have thought you might be the only one?”

“Well, I didn’t know all of the details about Amara until I spoke to Cas. After, I thought it might just be a blip for other angels. The greater the light, the more the darkness will impact a creature.”

Dean finally extracted himself from the desk, falling to his butt on the floor with an oof. He climbed to his feet, shaking his bowed legs out as if they were cramped or asleep. Seeming irritated that Dean had escaped his game, Gabriel blinked them back to the Great Room of the bunker. The fire was still crackling warmly.

“So you are the beacon that Crowley was talking about then?” Sam asked, returned to his seat at the table across from Gabe.

“Yes, although this is all new to me too. I didn’t know that would happen. Everything is just going haywire,” Gabe shrugged apologetically.

Annoyed, Dean rubbed his eyes, “Tell me again why killing you isn’t a good idea?”

“Dean,” Castiel reproached him.

Gabriel smirked at Dean, obviously about to remind him that killing him was not an option, but Sam cut in first.

“How are we supposed to help you anyway? This seems a little above our pay grade.”

Turning back to Sam, his smirk softened as he said, “Really? It doesn’t seem like much is above your pay grade these days.”

Grumbling, Dean got up and walked out of the room, saying “I’ll be right back,” from the hallway.

As they waited for Dean to return in silence, Sam knew that Gabriel’s eyes were glued to him, reading his expressions, so he stood up and walked over to the fire, facing away. He didn’t want the scrutiny right now while he was trying to sort through each piece of his mind.

Gabriel said he came here for help. Were the dreams and disturbances related to him, like Sam believed? Had Gabriel known the entire time and said nothing? 

Why had he come here for help - to them?

Dean returned with a mound of food - not actual food, just a horde of snacks - along with a few bottles of water and an entire bottle of whisky. Exasperated, Sam cast a look at him.

“What?” Dean said defensively, jerky hanging from his mouth. “You try losing a gallon of blood and then trying to make sense of this angel shit. I need to reprovision.”

Sam looked pointedly at the whisky. Out of his pockets, Dean pulled two tumblers, filling both with two fingers of whisky and putting one down in front of Sam with a thump. 

“Doctor’s orders, Sammy.”

Rolling his eyes, Sam sat down in front of the tumbler, ignoring it in favor of picking back up his line of questioning, “What about the stuff going on in the bunker. Was that you?”

“Not intentionally, but yes,” Gabe answered, looking sheepish. “I am not just an archangel anymore. I’ve lived on Earth for nearly two millennia. If I go darkside, that drama plays out across all of the hats I wear.”

Sam remembered his conversation with Gabriel from just a few days ago. ‘He is a living myth,’ Gabriel had said of Cas’ growing power. 

He glanced over at Cas, hovering somewhere behind Dean’s shoulder as Dean tored open a bag of chips and shoveled them in his mouth. Cas appeared to be lost in thought. 

“Right, so like a trickster god, or Loki,” even as Sam said it, the implications settled on him. 

“Correct, a trickster, the norse god Loki and the archangel Gabriel all walk into a bar and then burn it to the ground.”

“And the King of the Wild Hunt,” Sam added, testing how far he could take this newfound earnesty.

Dean gaped, “Wait, what?”

Gabe continued gamely, not addressing Dean’s confusion.

“Yes. Although The King of the Wild Hunt isn’t a person, it’s a job title or a mantle, if you will. Odin, Gawain, your old buddy Cain - all former Kings of the Wild Hunt. It lets you and about 20 of your closest hunting buddies ride through the sky and scare plebs in the country-side. Or, you know, party in the bunker. You are having these dreams because I am losing control over my abilities.”

Slamming his hands down on the table, Dean pushed up to his feet, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Calm your tits, Winchester. I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“But did you know this whole time?” Sam cut right to the heart of the matter and Gabe’s gaze returned to him cannily.

Sam was starting to notice that each time Dean exploded, Gabriel would intentionally rile him as if he was a convenient distraction or a comedic interlude. He fed off Dean’s energy and used it to deflect from more consequential matters. Sam refused to be deterred, focusing on keeping the conversation practical and dead serious. Each time he brought it back, Gabe’s eyes were measuring, impressed, even if he was a bit squirrelly. 

“Yes, I knew.” 

Sam glared at him for several seconds, reliving every terrible dream where his friends and family died or bickered or even dissolved into a bacchanalian orgy. The bone deep exhaustion, the draugr attacks and the most recent demon attack, all Gabe’s fault and he  **_knew_ ** .

“Why didn’t you tell us before?” Sam grated out through clenched teeth.

Oddly, Gabe looked almost flummoxed at the question, as if it was unexpected. “I needed you to help me.”

“You didn’t think to, you know, ask us?” Dean said.

Gabe considered for a long moment and then said, “No. I assumed you would say no if I asked upfront. I wanted to gain your trust first.”

Sam wanted to bang his head against the table. Of course, Gabriel was probably one of the most challenging people to read on the planet. Was he lying even now? Possibly. But he replied with so much earnesty that Sam almost believed it.

Gabe had lived among humans for millennia, but he couldn’t see that upfront honesty was a better way to earn someone’s trust. Just like Castiel, it seemed like Gabriel did not fully understand them, but perhaps he didn’t have bad intentions.

“Why come to us for help?” Sam asked, still evaluating.

“You know, family business and all that - saving people, hunting things. You check the boxes,” Gabriel replied jauntily. Gabriel used humor as a shield or a distraction from the truth. But Sam recognized now that the more Gabe hedged, the more obvious it was that Sam was digging in the right place.

“Stop messing around, Gabriel,” Sam pressed. “I’m sure you have a number of powerful friends out there who could help you.”

It felt like they were on the brink of being transformed into game show contestants or something. Gabe’s smirk ratched up in response to Sam’s direct questions. Luckily, Castiel came to at that moment.

“No, he doesn’t,” Castiel answered, speaking for the first time in a while. “Gabriel came to us because there is no one else.”

Dean startled at his voice, not realizing that Castiel was lurking just behind him. 

“This ingenious little monster dampener you live in was a deciding factor too. The fact that my presence has brought about only bad dreams, minor demonic activity and just a couple of revenants is a testament to how much the wards lay down a real cock block on the forces of darkness.”

With a look of dawning realization, Dean said, “That’s why you were tense and quiet all day when we were in town.”

“Right. But the bunker won’t do any of us much good anymore if I go postal like Israfil.”

Sam wanted to tell Gabriel to get the hell out. He wanted to put thick, angel-warded walls between the archangel and his family. He wanted to lock down the bunker and stomp down on the magnetism he felt toward Gabe. It was against every atom in him to allow this being to stay here when he couldn’t trust himself to change the direction this was all heading.

Unfortunately, he was a hunter, and that meant that the three of them could be the only thing that stood between a newly minted fallen archangel and everyone else. 

“We would have helped if you’d asked,” Sam said, maybe a little begrudgingly.

Gabe snorted in disbelief and Castiel added, “Sam is right.”

“Speak. for. yourself.” Dean bit out each word. “I would’ve vetoed that plan.”

Gabriel waved a nonplussed hand at Dean, looking at Castiel and Sam, as if to say “see?”

“But,” Dean continued irritably, “We’re here now. And it doesn’t seem like we have much of a choice. So how do we do this thing?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out all this time. I didn’t have any answers or solutions for you before, but I have an idea now.” 

Decision made, Sam felt the exhaustion of the past couple of weeks set in. 

Sam held up a hand, “Let’s take a pause. I have to pee and eat some real food.” He gave a final pointed look at Dean’s pile of junk food. “Can we take 30 and meet back here?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Don't Shoot Me Santa by the Killers.
> 
> This fic has a playlist! If you enjoy music, here are the songs that helped inspire and guide this fanfic: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7jNfMfZcNsuruH6mhpklZW?si=Tn5PrRwuRVWNy08duw-DCA


	13. In The Hall of the Mountain King

While Sam took care of his hunger and the other needs of the flesh, Castiel spent the short time they had in the Green Room, not working on his meager, undertended garden project, but slipping back into a brief trance to continue restoring his grace. 

Whatever the outcome of their conversation, he wanted to be better prepared. His inability to prevent Dean from bleeding out still had his hands shaking with fear.

While he agreed with the urgency of finding a solution to Gabriel’s predicament, he wished he had more time to rest and also to consider how he was being impacted by the darkness himself.

The entire host was being impacted, including Gabriel, so surely he must also be afflicted. But he hadn’t noticed anything different. If there was a new darkness in him, he couldn’t see it. Perhaps it was hidden somewhere inside him, just waiting for the right trigger.

Was his presence endangering Dean and Sam? 

The break was just too short to sort through the archives of his being to find anything amiss. 

They spent a couple of hours discussing Gabriel’s ideas and consulting the lore. They even returned to Gabriel’s imaginary classroom, Sam and Gabriel jotting down and erasing ideas on the chalkboard until the air was filled with dry dust. Dean sat on top of one of the student desks, balancing carefully to keep it from tipping over. 

Based on what Castiel knew of their childhood, it seemed appropriate for Dean to be lounging in the back of the classroom throwing out occasional barbs while Sam stood at the front with the teacher, working out a problem on the board.

They diagrammed each aspect of Gabriel’s being and the lore around it as if it was theoretical, not standing right there. 

As they narrowed in on a theory, Gabriel wrote down ‘yuletide’ and ‘December 21st’ on the chalkboard.

“So because of the hats I wear, I think this little saga can play out in a bit of quaint little Christmas lore,” he said, circling the date in white chalk.

A stack of books appeared on the teacher’s desk - the Christmas lore they’d discovered in the bunker. One book flipped open like a breeze was rushing through the room, pages turning quickly before stopping somewhere near the middle.

Sam leaned over and read aloud, “The Holly King and the Oak King. Wait, I remember this one. On the darkest day of the year, there’s a fabled battle to end dark days and bring back the light and spring. Some believe the Holly King and the Oak King are twins, but the more common interpretations say they are two sides of the same person.”

“Right, leading the Wild Hunt is the purview of the Holly King. It’s why sightings of the hunt are more common during the darkest days of the year,” Gabriel explained.

“Huh. This is kind of a perfect analogy for our current situation,” Sam mused running a finger over lines in the book. He glanced up, “This is you?”

“It’s a depiction. A responsibility really,” Gabriel responded. “Or at least the Holly King is the name of all that is dark and cold within me.”

Gabriel intoned the last bit with so much Shakespearean drama that the temperature in the room seemed like it dropped a few degrees. Because of his stature and jovial demeanor, it was easy to forget that Gabriel was an archangel of the Lord. Of course, regardless of his vessel, Castiel could see the power in Gabriel’s grace at all times, but he was so unlike the other archangels.

“The Holly King?” Dean said incredulously. “That is some damn Hallmark movie bullshit. Do we defeat him with snow ball fights and caroling?”

“Usually the battle is more pomp and circumstance than a legitimate throwdown, but given the specific powers I’m struggling to reign in, I have a suspicion this winter solstice will be a doozy.”

“How are you all of the things?” Dean grumbled. “Everytime we see you it’s like you slap your dick out on the table and it’s mysteriously bigger. A trickster god. Loki. An archangel. Now you’re fucking Santa Claus. You have to be making this shit up.”

“I am  _ not  _ Santa Claus,” Gabriel shot back, as if insulted.

“Oh right. You’re the HOLLY king,” Dean retorted mockingly.

“Will you two SHUT UP,” Sam broke in, looking away from the chalkboard long enough to glare at them.

“Sometimes it’s because I did something people couldn’t explain,” Gabriel said, gesturing broadly with both hands, “so then they based some kind of deity on me. Like the trickster thing. In this particular case, I may have attended a ceremonial right a few hundred years ago and gotten a little too engrossed in a divine orgy, and - boom - woke up in the morning responsible for ensuring the balance of light and dark is maintained. What can I say? It’s hard to explain what it is to be an admired and worshipped celestial being to your little pea brain.”

As much as Gabriel mocked the questions, they were legitimate. In all of history, no angels had defected from heaven to walk among mortals indefinitely. Regardless, it irritating Castiel to watch Gabriel bait Dean into exchanges over understandable concerns.

Clearly, Gabriel was more like himself and Sam, interested in pursuing things from an intellectual angle, whereas Dean may have been the only one among them who was chiefly interested in practical realities and plain speech. But Dean was almost heroic at this point in his deeds, and undoubtedly the more formidable of the two Winchester brothers. He was worthy of respect, a point that Castiel had already discussed with Gabriel.

Castiel spoke up, shooting a warning glance at Gabriel as he interceded with patience, “He warps reality and reality warps him. A being as powerful as Gabriel is like a neutron star. Its gravity creates a whirlpool in the plane of space.”

Watching Dean’s frustrated expression, he could tell he wasn’t doing any better at explaining.

“In the queen’s goddamn english, please,” Dean responded. “What does the fucking sugar plum fairy have to do with this?”

“It doesn’t, not really,” Sam turned around. “Every year Gabriel has to do some kind of ceremonial battle to maintain the balance of light and dark because he’s been given the powers of the Holly King. Right?”

Gabriel confirmed, “Yes.”

Sam continued, “So because it’s Christmas-time and it’s a good allegory of dark and light, we might be able to use that battle to also prevent Gabriel from going insane.”

“That’s right. The Oak King must fight the Holly King and win. But it’s not going to be a fair fight this year.”

Dean put his head in his hands. “Fuck me. I need a drink.” 

Gabriel had not transported the whisky into the classroom with them. Castiel considered doing so at Dean’s request, but he felt that it was more wise to conserve his energy while his grace was still recovering.

“Look. I didn’t make this shit up - humans did. It’s your weirdo brains that create these myths and then make them so,” Gabriel shot back. “Regardless, as a being that walks the earth, I have to play by the rules. If the balance isn’t maintained, and the Oak King cannot defeat the Holly King, there will be eternal winter and long, dark days. Oh, and an archangel who may be the most powerful being left standing who has descended into utter madness.”

Dean sighed with resignation, “Do we know any of this is going to work?”

Sam picked up the eraser and wiped away all of the previous ideas he and Gabriel had vetted on the board. He wrote ‘The Holly King’ at the top of the board and responded, “No, but it’s all we’ve got.”

Powering through the next hour with manic intensity, Sam went through the entire lore of the Holly King with Gabriel, coming up with a list of weaknesses for them to consider. On the flip side, Dean stared on in a catatonic glaze, clearly in need of rest.

Castiel found that he had been staring when Dean’s eyes flicked briefly in his direction, uncomfortable under his gaze. Embarrassed, he refocused on the ground, wistful for the days before he was Lucifer’s vessel when he could have rested a hand on Dean’s shoulder and whisked some of that tiredness away through his grace.

Of course, it wasn’t Dean who had ended their physical relationship, apparently seeing no conflict between sharing his bed with Castiel while maintaining feelings for another. Castiel was the one who had asked for space as he struggled with unknown feelings.

He fell in love with Dean because Dean called him from the host to be something different and better. He saw a capacity in Castiel that was unique among angels, giving name to his true nature. He taught Castiel that kindness was more meaningful when you had the choice not to give it. That goodness is dependent on choice, not determined from on high. 

And he liked music and riding with the windows rolled down and a myriad of small, beautiful moments, and those were things Castiel appreciated too. 

Castiel felt no darker or less stable, other than the uncertainty of his future and the tangle of his feelings about Dean. It did feel murky, maybe a little insidious, to wish that Dean was in more pain and turmoil. To want the full weight of the substantial anger that Dean Winchester was uniquely capable of heaping on someone who failed him or hurt him. He had watched Dean hold a sharp bitterness toward Sam for months on end.

Was it a symptom of the darkness touching him that he wanted some kind of emotional exclusivity from Dean?

Was it a symptom that he wanted to be treated to the same anger and disappointment that Dean reserved for Sam?

He pressed further, trying to find the words.

The word - possession - rose in his mind unbidden. He wanted to belong to Dean. And yes, he wanted Dean to belong to him. The word sent a shiver down his spine, it was both arousing and unsettling. It felt dark.

He recalled Bethel’s words viscerally: “I have only ever seen anything like this once before.”

Envy had been Lucifer’s first downfall. It probably started as a small slight - an unnameable sensation of discomfort at feeling less special, less bright under God’s light compared to his other creations. Was that not what he felt now, in some kind of odd reversal. 

Dean had little admiration for the beings that were supposed to be revered in this world: Chuck, the angels, even Death. But now there was Amara, and he was inadequate in so many ways compared to her. 

It felt distinctly un-angelic to desire mutual and exclusive devotion in that way. He shuddered as he put a name to what he’d been experiencing all along: jealousy.

Jealousy.

It echoed in him.

Coming back to himself, he turned back into the conversation playing out in front of him. He would have to discuss this discovery with one or all of them, especially if, as he suspected, they were a sign of encroaching darkness. Together, they could find a way to restore the balance in his grace as well.

Gabriel was saying, “Most Christmas decorations originate from age-old traditions that ward off or hamper evil spirits, much like salt or sage.”

Castiel tilted his head and said, “So you are saying that we must… decorate?” Everyone turned to him as if they’d forgotten he was in the room.

“I swear to God, Gabriel, if this is all a giant prank, because it sure as hell sounds like it, I will find a way to finally kill you, and I will do it slowly and with pleasure,” Dean grumbled. He had not been in favor of decorating to begin with, so he was doubtless irritated that they would need to do even more.

Gabriel opened his mouth to hit back with a retort, but he glanced at Castiel and restrained himself, just saying, “Noted.”

“We should make a list and divide up. Two of us can go to the store, the other two can get the tree,” Sam suggested. 

After hesitating for a long second, Gabriel replied, “I’m not sure if it’s wise for me to leave here. Moths to the flame, remember?”

Dean shrugged, “You’re already putting us at risk. We’ve gotten attacked with or without you there. Plus I saw what you did to that one draugr. Do you really think we could get into any kind of trouble you couldn’t handle?”

Tapping his fingers to his chin, Gabriel considered and then finally nodded, “You and Sam will need to go heavily armed because there will be revenants and demons. Oh, and we’ll wait for daylight because it’ll be worse at night.”

“Me and Gabe go to the woods, Sam and Cas go to the store,” Dean stated.

Sam opened his mouth and started to disagree, but Dean cut in forcefully, “That’s how it’s going down, or not at all.”

The two brothers stared each other down until finally, Sam relented and turned away with a huff. 

“Alright, this is the plan,” Gabriel continued. “Cas and Sam can just beam over to buy these supplies from the store. No reason to spend more time outside the bunker. Dean and I will need to drive to the east of the state to find some actual woods in this charming piece of nothing you all live on, and we will need the car to bring everything back.”

At that, the classroom dissolved around them and they returned to the great room, where the Christmas lights still twinkled, but the fire had reduced to embers and the room was dim and frigid. 

Sam strode over to add a log to the embers, but Dean stopped him, “Yeah, sorry, Sammy. We’re out of wood inside the bunker. I was restocking from the shed when I got ganked.” 

Gamely, Gabriel brought the fire back to a roar with a flicker of fingers. “We can get more tomorrow. For now I can keep things toasty for my favorite endotherms.”

“Kiss ass,” Dean muttered, but without much heat. 

Once they split up, as always, Dean went off provision them for the following day and inspect all of the key functions of the Impala. Dean collected items from both the Weapons Room and the Storage Room, and Castiel joined him in the garage. On the wooden slab table by the Impala, he’d lain out a collection of machetes, axes and, on the floor, a chainsaw. 

Castiel weighed whether or not it was the time to discuss his concerns about his own integrity, while Dean ran a whetstone over the blade of a small hand axe. The silence was neither comfortable, nor entirely awkward - different than it had been between them, but not hostile. 

“You said he showed you,” Dean said, surprising Castiel, who had expected Dean to continue on in silence. He put aside the best weapons into a bag for Sam, while putting only a rusty machete into the trunk of the Impala. 

“Yes. After his outburst, I confronted him to demand the whole truth,” Castiel replied.

“And you think he’s telling the truth now,” Dean asked, coolly.

“That is… a stretch,” Castiel admitted, “But I think he needs our help and would not harm us to that end.”

Dean shrugged, “I want to believe him. Especially given the times he’s helped us out. He’s a pain in my ass, but I’d like to think he’s not an evil dick.”

“You are worried about Sam,” Castiel replied. He knew Sam well - he was guarded, suspicious and afraid of his own judgement because of the mistakes he’d made before trusting others. But there was obviously a connection between Sam and Gabriel.

“I’m worried about all of us,” Dean replied, pulling out a small pencil tire pressure gauge to check the air on the Impala’s tires. “Mostly I’m worried about having another unhinged archangel on the loose. It’s stupid - but I honestly thought when A - “ he paused just short of saying her name, “when Lucifer died, we were done with them.”

Castiel’s lips twitched with a small wry smile, “I know your experience of the archangels has been mostly unpleasant. Without God’s oversight, they interpreted his will very poorly. But they should be beings of supreme good and light.”

“In my experience, nothing that powerful is ever very good,” Dean grumbled in reply, ducking behind the other side of the car to check those tires. When he stood up, he revised his statement, eyes flicking briefly to Castiel’s, “Well, except…”

The reminder twanged in Castiel’s stomach like a discordant note. Dean called Castiel to be something different and better, but now the shade of jealousy was eclipsing that. Dean was handing him the perfect opportunity to discuss his concerns.

Licking his lips, Castiel launched into an explanation, “You helped me realize how to be good. Before I was just a hand driven by another’s will. I was blind devotion to an absent God. Goodness requires free will and choice -” 

With a groan of dismissal, Dean cut in, “I didn’t do that, you did. Lucifer chose too and so did all those other jackasses with wings. You can’t tell  _ me _ , of all people, that there isn’t a choice regardless of how much darkness you’re struggling with.”

Of course, Dean and Sam had both overcome unbelievable darkness and temptation. But Castiel knew Dean could not see how truly special he was, therefore he thought anyone should be capable of the same goodness. Dean’s utter refusal to submit to an unjust destiny, to submit to darkness, was unique. He simply couldn’t understand what free will was like for others.

Regardless, he couldn’t bring himself to voice his concerns with Dean anymore. His feelings of inadequacy in Dean’s eyes were already enough without adding to weak-willed to the list. He’d have to discuss it with Sam.

“Ground control to Major Tom,” Dean put a hand on his shoulder and shook him, startling him out of his thoughts, and he realized he must have gone silent for too long. The table was now empty, all of the weapons packed either into the trunk or a bag for Sam.

“Dean, tomorrow… be careful.” Castiel said, a poor replacement for what he really wanted to say, which was ‘I love you.’

As if he’d somehow seen right through Castiel, Dean’s expression shifted uncomfortably and he glanced away. Waving a hand in the air as if Castiel was an overprotective parent, Dean walked out of the room, saying, “Yeah, yeah.”

With the plan decided, the Winchesters dispersed, heading off to their separate rooms, finally able to sleep at the same time.

Castiel waited for them both to fall asleep then returned to his meditation in the Green Room, gazing glumly at small green sprouts he’d had no time to encourage, reserving his grace for the following day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the very famous Edvard Grieg play Peer Gynt.
> 
> This fic has a playlist! If you enjoy music, here are the songs that helped inspire and guide this fanfic: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7jNfMfZcNsuruH6mhpklZW?si=Tn5PrRwuRVWNy08duw-DCA


	14. Grain of Sand

When Dean came to the next morning, his body was warm and toasty, but his nose was cold, and he shivered for several long seconds as the violence and arousal of the latest dream fled his mind. Each time he thought the dreams had reached a new level of disturbing, he woke to some new horror. 

The dream was easier to shake, though, with the knowledge that they had a plan. A solid five hours of sleep wasn’t bad either.

He dashed into the shower, spending too long under the stream of hot water, then shivered into his clothes, eventually stilling as he laced up his boots and shrugged on a flannel shirt over his t-shirt. 

The hallway was dark and quiet, and he made his way down the stairs to the garage, flicking the fluorescent lights on overhead. After he pulled open the garage door, he leaned in, a knee on the bench seat, and turned the ignition on the Impala, connecting the bluetooth to his phone and cranking up some music over the car speakers, a surefire wake-up routine as steady as coffee.

He was unsurprised to note that Gabriel had appeared, resting his back against the concrete wall of the open garage entry, illuminated by just the barest bit of pre-sunrise daylight. 

Dean acknowledged him with a gruff, “Morning.”

“You know that opening the garage door neutralizes some of the wards?” Gabriel asked, but there wasn’t any bite in his tone.

“Someone has to shovel the drive if we’re gonna get the Impala out of here.”

“I could -”

“No!” Dean held up a hand, then paused before continuing with more calm. “No. I appreciate the thought, man, but I’d rather do this myself. You can stand there and watch my back if you want to.”

The driveway was short, but since he’d last cleared it, a fresh new blanket of powder covered the trail he’d dug out last. It was still early in the season, but the snow banks were starting to build on either side of the drive. With a wide scoop shovel, he piled snow up on either side of the drive. His senses were still on high alert in spite of Gabriel’s silent presence nearby, ready to angel whump any draugr or demons. 

By the time he finished, he was sweating underneath his layers, but his hands were numb even through the gloves. He sprinkled a layer of cat litter from a bag inside the garage along the two tracks where he’d guide the Impala out of the garage. 

Gabriel stepped fully inside as he grabbed the cord to close the garage door.

“I guess Crowley has a lid on hell for now,” Dean commented once the door was closed and they both relaxed a hair. 

“Convenient friendship you’ve made there,” Gabriel replied.

“We had a common enemy,” Dean shrugged, pulling off wet gloves and laying them out on a table to dry. 

“I don’t know exactly what to expect today, but I don’t think it will stay this quiet,” Gabriel warned. “It was a smart decision pairing off Sam and Cas. The worst of it should follow us. We should take back roads - try to avoid any population centers where there might be a lot of dead bodies that can pop out of the ground.”

Dean grimaced, “Taking back roads with this much fresh snow on the ground will take a lot longer.”

Gabriel merely shrugged in response and they settled into an easy quiet.

After Dean had replaced his wet outer layers with dry ones, he grabbed the bag he’d packed for Sam and they headed back upstairs together. With no need to rush, Cas and Sam sat at the table looking over Google Maps to determine which store to go to while Sam finished his coffee. 

Sam slid over a to-go thermos of coffee to Dean, sipping from a steaming mug himself, and the four of them conferred on the plan one more time.

“I have a feeling I’m going to regret not getting the chance to watch you two push a cart around Hobby Lobby,” Dean joked, glancing over the top of the laptop at the map. 

“We’ll make sure to bring back a Live. Laugh. Love. sign to hang in your bedroom,” Sam replied.

“Hey. If inspirational wall art is wrong, I don’t want to be right,” Dean shrugged. 

Dean and Sam were both in a good mood, although for different reasons. Dean was on just this side of elated to be leaving the bunker. The possibility of running into trouble concerned him, of course, but it also was a life raft in a sea of boredom. 

This was his life. Hunting was everything.

He knew Sam didn’t relish the fights or the violence the way he did. Sam enjoyed the thrill of solving the mystery and resulting return to normalcy. He didn’t like problems he couldn’t solve. Progress buoyed him.

“Alright, we’re outta here,” Dean saluted with his thermos. “Probably won’t be back until sundown.”

“If you run into trouble - ”

“I’ll call you,” Dean cut in with a wave of his hand as he walked out of the room.

  
  
  


With no particular need to rush, Sam and Cas continued in comfortable silence in the kitchen for some time while Sam made oatmeal and finished a second pot of coffee. The events of the last few days had happened in such quick succession that they’d had few moments of downtime like this. 

For his part, Sam was exhausted after talking and thinking and trying to intuit Gabriel’s true intentions for hours the night before. Castiel was questionable at this point, if not to the level of suspicious, but Sam found it impossible that morning to wage a battle of wits on two fronts. 

Now that the disparate pieces had been labelled and connected, it was obvious. The Wild Hunt had always been connected to the Norse Gods and also to Yuletide. 

Perhaps the only reason Gabriel had not gone off the deep end yet, like Israfil, was because he was restricted by the confines of other mythologies too. Angels and gods might possess incredible power, but they still had to play by certain rules. 

“Sam,” when Cas called his name, his voice sounded hoarse from lack of use and he had to pause to clear it. It startled Sam from his thoughts, and he looked up from his laptop.

Cas continued, “I have been trying to determine if I am also impacted by this darkness.”

Sam almost smiled. Trust Cas to cut straight to the chase. Even as his guard draw up warily, he felt reassured by Cas’ steady predictability. 

“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that too,” Sam acknowledged.

“I have not felt out of control, per se, like what we experienced with Gabriel or Bethel. I have been experiencing new emotions though, ones which have been challenging to identify, but feel concerning none-the-less,” Castiel admitted, sitting up straighter to face Sam fully.

“What kind of emotions?” 

“Jealousy,” Cas disclosed with gravity.

If Cas wasn’t so obviously ashamed, Sam would have laughed. Jealous of what?

Cas continued as though Sam had spoken aloud, “I have been coveting your brother’s exclusive affection.”

It wasn’t Sam’s fault when his jaw dropped, just a little. He’d pressed both Cas and Dean at this point about this exact issue to try to resolve whatever was going on between them. Now Cas was here, unexpectedly revealing some part of it to him, and he wished to god there was someone, anyone else, that Castiel could talk to about his relationship problems with his brother.

“Cas, most people want exclusivity in a serious relationship,” Sam finally mustered a response.

“I am not people.”

Sam pressed on, “Jealousy is a normal emotion when you care about someone, even among friends.”

“Jealousy is a form of envy, which was the sin of Lucifer,” Castiel insisted.

Seeing how serious Cas was in his concerns, Sam played along, just hoping against hope that he could stay clear of certain topics. 

“Ok, what does the jealousy make you want to do?”

Castiel considered the question with a grave frown, then answered, “I have given Dean leave to pursue his feelings for another. But I find myself unable to continue our relationship now as it has been, even though he has an interest in doing so.”

Sam’s brain swam in Castiel’s response. Who did Dean have feelings for? What the hell had his stupid brother done to make Cas feel slighted?

“That sounds… like an incredibly mature and well-balanced response,” Sam replied, lifting one eyebrow at Castiel. 

Determined, Castiel confessed, “I have been bothered by how accepting and calm his response has been. I found that I desired for him to be angry, resentful, hurt.”

Sam couldn’t tell if Castiel wanted absolution or condemnation. Either way, Cas was completely blind. Dean had been moping around the house for days, drinking too much and insufferably grumpy. He’d even carelessly gone outside the bunker on his own, notifying nobody, and almost gotten himself killed. Dean had revealed very little to Sam, but it was obvious that Dean was angry, resentful and hurt. 

“Cas,” Sam intoned slowly, “That’s normal for you to want that reaction. Have you done anything to try to force those feelings out of Dean?”

Recoiling, Castiel said, “No. Of course not.”

“Is that it then? That’s the only thing off you’ve noticed about yourself?”

Again, Sam felt a strong urge to smile, but he pushed it back.

“Yes, but -”

“No. Listen, Cas,” Sam cut in, “You should talk to Dean about this, and try to make him actually listen. I know angels aren’t supposed to feel emotions or whatever, but they do, and just like humans, it’s what you do with them that matters, not the fact that you feel them.”

Stumped into silence, Castiel weighed Sam’s words. 

Finally, he said, “Thank you, Sam. I will consider what you have said and reflect on my actions.”

Sam had many more questions, but they didn’t feel like any of his business, and he was concerned that the answers could lead into the realm of things he’d need an ice pick lobotomy to clear from his brain. 

Instead, he stood up and stretched his arms over his head, saying, “I’m gonna go get ready.”

Grabbing his phone and slipping it into his pocket, he headed off to his room to shower and change. Sam’s mind hummed with excitement, which was absurd because they undoubtedly got the less glorious shopping list. 

Dean and Gabriel would soon be hiking around in a snowy wood in Missouri, collecting greenery and using a chainsaw to cut down a tree from the oods, while he and Cas got stuck picking out candles at Hobby Lobby. 

But it was progress. Hell, unless Gabriel was lying, which seemed almost inevitable, it was the solution. 

Sam pulled his razor out from the drawer, looking a little haggard after a couple of weeks of letting stubble grow. After he shaved, he resisted the urge to do more than run a comb through his hair. Were angels really in it for the looks anyway? They didn’t have bodies except for borrowed ones. Although he’d absolutely witnessed Castiel eyeing Dean appreciatively more than once. Maybe it was about his aura or his soul.

Or maybe Sam was absolutely idiotic and the only thing Gabriel could possibly want from him was his trust for the explicit purpose of using it against him. This was just a game of cat and mouse, and that’s why it was exhilarating. But it was important not to forget that in that game, one of the players was a murderer that liked to play with its food.

Putting away those thoughts, because compartmentalizing might as well have been the Winchester family business, he pulled on a t-shirt and then a thick flannel button down over it, and started lacing up his boots over wool socks. 

Meeting Castiel back in the kitchen, he hid more than one weapon within the straps and pockets of his winter coat. Cas conferred one last time with Google Maps to ensure he had a good handle on their destination. 

“Ready?” Cas asked after Sam had patted down the pockets of his coat and his jeans in a quick check. Then he put his hand on Sam’s shoulder and they disappeared.

  
  
  


As they drove, the bleak, white expanse of Kansas began to give way to more brush and eventually trees as they approached the Missouri line to the east. They spent the first hour of the drive mostly in silence, with Dean blasting Metallica to tamp down on the need for any awkward conversation. 

Although he wondered if the urge to fill long silences was a purely human thing. What was three hours of silence to a being who had lived for millenia? 

He started seeing green road signs for the conservation area and he slowed down, coasting about a mile before turning on his blinker, he took a gravel road down through a  copse of trees. There was an uninterrupted dusting of light snow along the road and the tire tracks the Impala left were the first of the day. 

The empty parking lot had a boat ramp for the lake and a freestanding bathroom. He pulled over into a corner spot that was out of sight from the way in.

Before Dean could even get his seatbelt unbuckled, something hit the car with a loud whump. Dean froze for a second, that panicked feeling of hitting something with your car  rising up in him, until he realized it was the other way around.

The draugr climbed up over the hood, one hand reaching down to scrabble at the driver side window.

Dean had barely gotten out, “Oh hell no,” and jerked open the driver’s side door before the draugr ricocheted back the way it came and severed clean in half as it hit a tree with blinding force. 

Dean released the machete from his hand, halfway out of its holster, and it fell back in, concealed again in his coat. He put his feet fully on the pavement and climbed out of the car. Gabriel hopped out of the passenger side and looked at him over the roof of the car. 

“You’re handy, but you also take all the fun out of it,” Dean observed.

“It’s coming back,” Gabe said pointing at the torso dragging its way back through the woods, entrails sticking on leaves and twigs. “I’ll let you do the honors.”

“I don’t take sloppy seconds,” Dean shrugged, already moving on to inspect the scratches and dents the draugr inflicted on the Impala. He was relieved to see they were all surface level and could easily be buffed out. 

With a snap of his fingers, purely for show, Gabriel exploded the head of the draugr, little bits hitting nearby rocks and trees with cacophony of wet thuds.

As he opened the trunk, Dean wondered what the limits of Gabriel’s powers were, given how much he appeared to outclass Cas. It seemed like saving thousands of souls from de-atomization in heaven was a powerful feat, but one so challenging that it almost exhausted Cas’ grace. How easy would every hunt or challenge they had ever faced have been with Gabriel around to snap his fingers?

“So, that -” Dean waved vaguely at the exploded bits of draugr in the nearby woods, “What’s your limit when it comes to doing that?”

Gabe tilted his head in a way that was weirdly reminiscent of Cas - maybe it was some kind of angel thing. Dean handed the axe over to Gabe and then grabbed out the chainsaw, putting it on the pavement to bang the trunk closed. 

“When another supernatural being asks you that question, it would be considered rude. And maybe I should take offense in this case given your illustrious career, but I’ll just say this: I will never run out of mojo when it comes to nuking revenants.”

“Why do you call them that? Revenants.”

“Draugr is a norse word. I haven’t spoken that language in centuries. Christians call them revenants.”

“Oh,” Dean said succinctly, then picked up the chainsaw. He grabbed his duffel out from the back seat, slinging it over his right shoulder as he said, “Alright, lead on Ranger Gabe.” 

They hiked off into the woods, not on any particular trail, disturbing brown leaves cupping bits of snow and occasionally traversing narrow frozen streams or rock outcroppings. 

While the canopy was empty, allowing a fair amount of glare from the overcast sky, the wood was thick enough that there was some green below: green briars, scrubby grass in alternating green and brown, and the occasional fern. 

As they walked, Gabriel would point out wild holly trees or evergreen limbs to Dean, and they hacked each branch off and tucked it into Dean’s duffel. Gabriel even spotted a few balls of mistletoe, clinging to the tree canopy, and he would blink off to balance on a bare limb to retrieve it for Dean’s bag.

The woods were quiet and peaceful, except for when a new draugr reached them. It was easy to hear the freakishly fast footsteps a long time coming.

Quickly, they developed a pattern of taking alternate turns killing draugr, although if more than one came at a time, they would both pitch in, and it quickly became a pissing contest of who could kill the draugr in the most creative way.

Dean, of course, couldn’t kill the strong fuckers more quickly than Gabriel, but he sure could hack them to death in creative ways. 

Gabriel flung one up into the air and impaled it on a particularly upright limb on a nearby tree, where it flailed uselessly.

“Good one,” Dean commented, already considering how to approach his next kill. “Wait, will it de-animate up there eventually?”

“Probably not,” Gabriel shrugged. While it chilled Dean a little to see Gabriel’s nonchalance at leaving a being, granted a draugr, pinned to a tree thrashing for eternity, mostly he just worried about the next people who came tromping along in this forest.

“What if someone else comes along?” Dean prompted as a few loose limbs rained down from the tree.

“Ugh, fine,” Gabriel scoffed and the head simply fell off the draugr, landing with a splatter at Dean’s feet, where it liquified on impact. 

Gagging, Dean carefully side stepped and followed Gabriel further into the woods in silence. Dean had just started to wonder if they would ever find what they were looking for, or if Gabriel was just enjoying drawing out their game, when Gabriel pointed out an enormous felled oak trunk.

Twenty minutes later, sweating from the effort of slowly gnawing into the enormous trunk with the chainsaw, Dean panted out during a break, “Explain to me why we needed different firewood than we have at the bunker already.”

Gabriel was standing watch, squashing draugr like bugs.

“A yule log is different. It has to be a single log that’s big enough to burn for several days.”

“Will the fireplace even fit this trunk?”

Eyeing it as if it hadn’t occurred to him, Gabriel admitted, “We’ll figure something out.”

Just as Dean forced the chainsaw through the final bit of tough bark on the far side of the trunk, they encountered their first demon. 

Dean glanced up as the cop hailed them - a dark-haired middle-aged woman in uniform, signaling at Dean to stop the chain saw with her hand resting on the holster of her gun. He started rattling off the lie he’d prepared for why they were scavenging items from a conservation area.

Then his eyes shot wide as Gabriel reappeared in front of the women abruptly, and he thought for a second that Gabriel was just going to waste a cop, then Gabe’s hand slammed into her forehead and a stream of black smoke shot up into the cold air like steam.

The cop collapsed to the ground, still alive, but confused, and Dean rushed forward to kneel beside her while Gabriel stepped away. 

“Hey,” he said gently, as if he was speaking to a stray dog, “you’re OK.” He helped her to her feet with a hand at her elbow as she blinked around in confusion.

“I don’t understand,” she said, looking at Dean as if he was a lifeline. Her eyes landed on Gabriel with abject terror. “What is he?”

Dean figured he should’ve had a better line at this point for people waking up from possession after being exorcised, but he didn’t. And he certainly didn’t know how to explain to a terrified person what an angel was and how they weren’t really all that wholesome.

People did react to Castiel with fear when he performed similar feats, but more often than not, they reacted with awe and amazement. But Gabe’s entire air was remote and mercurial. It was obvious how different lore had risen up around him, labelling him not as a being of evil, but rather a variety of gods that had dual natures. Cas was one of the only angels he’d ever met that expressed a true interest in human life. 

Turning back to Gabriel, he asked, “Can you get the trunk back to the car?”

By the time he’d guided the cop back to her car, Gabe was there waiting, leaning against the tailgate to Dean’s irritation. He had tried to convince her she was dreaming, but he was pretty sure she believed she was having a psychotic episode. She peeled out of the parking lot, not taking her eyes off Gabriel as she left.

Once Dean was in earshot again, glaring pointedly at Gabriel’s hip where it rested against the taillight, Gabe leaned away, sighing, “Being a god just isn’t what it once was.”

“Oh yeah? You miss the groveling and worship when you perform minor acts of goodness?” Dean reached over to pop the clasp of the hood and pull out a tarp.

“Nah, I miss the virgins and sacrifices,” Gabriel quipped, and Dean rolled his eyes. “Everyone’s an atheist these days. Or they believe in a guy who’s actually an awkward fuck called Chuck.”

“Alright, Shakespeare.”

“That was an unintentional rhyme. Although it does make a good epitaph.”

Dean held his tongue, shaking out the tarp with a loud snap and arranging it to cover every inch of the trunk. Gabriel lifted the great oak trunk with the same ease you would an empty cardboard box, and placed it gently on top of the tarp. The archangel had to have some special powers of spatial reasoning because the trunk closed just perfectly, with only a centimeter or two to spare between the log and the lid. 

“Now for the tree,” Gabriel announced, almost cheerfully. “I saw one earlier so we can just fly back there.”

“Thank god,” Dean muttered, grateful to cut the nature walk with Gabe short.

With a hand on his shoulder, Gabe returned them to the woods.

  
  
  


Sam and Castiel appeared together, with Castiel’s hand gripping Sam’s forearm, behind a long, flat white complex of buildings near an empty loading bay and a dumpster. Castiel looked around, worried he’d brought them to the wrong location, but Sam took off as though he understood where they were. The sky was gray and overcast, but it wasn’t snowing, although large clumps of snow were pushed up into the corners of the black pavement, with trash and truck oil turning them black.

They walked around and turned a corner, then another corner into a mostly empty parking lot. Apparently he had transported him behind the stores, because from the front he saw several blocks of glass-fronted stores and finally “Hobby Lobby” in big orange letters embedded into the largest building in the strip.

Sam grabbed a deserted shopping cart as they walked over, pausing in his steady gait to allow a young woman to enter the store in front of him. 

Although Castiel had been mostly on Earth for the past several years, he had very limited experience with stores. Diners, bars, parks, homes and motels - those were things he felt like he understood now. Even the occasional grocery store. But he’d never had cause to go into other stores where humans purchased things. 

He found the fluorescent lights unpleasant, and he noticed a birds nest in the high rafters of the building near a skylight. The store was warm, however, which he supposed was more pleasant for the shoppers, likely a great improvement in winter over the outdoor markets that humans traded at for millenia.

With long legs, Sam continued at a fast clip, glancing up at signs that capped the end of each aisle of items. Castiel followed his gaze and noticed that each row was conveniently labelled. They walked down a long aisle that had nothing but flowers in buckets, arranged in a rainbow cascading down the aisle.

Disoriented, Cas came to a stop and rubbed the petals of a yellow sunflower between two fingers, discovering it was composed of a synthetic fabric. He plucked the false flower out of the bucket and examined the stem: a piece of metal covered with green-colored plastic.

At the end of the aisle, Sam finally noticed he’d lost Cas and turned back around, his expression both amused and impatient.

“What is the purpose of these fabricated flowers?”

“They don’t have a purpose,” Sam explained patiently. “People just like the way they look.”

“Humans go to work to earn money to pay for these?”

“Yep,” Sam replied, the corner of his mouth tipping up. 

“Flowers grow outside for free,” Castiel was flummoxed. Perhaps it was related to fewer flowers growing in winter and humans reminiscing about the return of spring? But given the constant pursuit of money humans labored for, it seemed like an odd item to prioritize. It also seemed like a clumsy facsimile of a flower.

Glancing up at Sam, he followed his gaze to a woman standing only a few feet away who had a shopping cart full of false hydrangeas and lilies, giving them a strange and somewhat offended look. 

Sam grabbed his elbow and guided him away, telling her, “He’s not from here.”

Castiel wanted to stay and ask the woman why she was purchasing the flowers, but he followed Sam anyway, knowing they were trying to get back to the bunker quickly. 

They found a shelf that was devoted entirely to candles and intricate varieties of candle holders. Sam stopped, hauling entire armfuls of candles off the shelves into the basket. 

On the opposite side, there were a number of items Castiel did not recognize. He read the labels on each, wondering what types of creatures you might fight with a glue gun or how a person would use adhesive wiggle eyes. 

“There seems to be no particular theme to this store,” Castiel mused as Sam finished clearing the shelf of candles. 

“It’s for home decorating,” Sam replied, waving Cas to follow him to a new location.

Castiel grabbed a large plastic bag filled with rounded wooden sticks from a hook and trailed behind Sam, reading the label, “Humans decorate their homes with 200 popsicle sticks?”

“Umm.. Well, I guess it’s for crafting too,” Sam said, steering them down an aisle filled top to bottom with red and green Christmas decorations. 

Setting the popsicles sticks down next to a glass globe filled with water and a figurine of a reindeer, Castiel weighed the term Sam used, “Crafting….”

The Christmas aisle was easier to understand, given the longstanding traditions of Christmas and the fact that the inspiration for many decorations pre-dated the birth of Jesus. Sam discovered a hook with at least ten sets of identical fake-leather strips, each with four silver, circular bells attached, at both ends there was a large, metal hoop. As he grabbed a handful and threw them in the cart atop the candles, they jingled discordantly. 

“Whew. Well knock on wood, but we’re done,” Sam sighed and started pushing the cart with purchase back toward the front of the store.

Castiel knew that idiom. 

“Indeed. We have been lucky as of now.”

Returning to the front, there were many desks to purchase the items, but only one was attended, and a woman was already there, handing fabrics and sewing equipment to be totalled. Stopping behind them, Sam peered at a few magazines and Castiel wondered if he was actually interested in weight loss tips, before he remembered that watching the proceedings in front of them could be considered a sign of impatience. 

He heard Dean’s voice saying, ‘It makes people uncomfortable when you stare, Cas.’ He refocused on the varieties of chewing gum offered. 

The woman ahead of them swiped her credit card and finished her order, pushing off to the side to reassemble her wallet, and Sam started handing off the bells and then the candles with a smile.

While the attendant slid each candle across the scanner, Sam loaded them all into plastic bags alongside the bells. Castiel leaned just the slightest bit over the rubber conveyor belt to examine the fractured red light within the black scanner. 

Apparently, Castiel moved into the territory of uncomfortable because Sam cleared his throat, and Castiel lifted his eyes to smile apologetically at the attendant. 

His gaze lifted to hers and he recoiled. 

Throwing his arm out, he threw Sam backward into the register behind them, his eyes locked on the attendant’s as they clouded over with black.

Her head canted, lips twisting into a smirk.

“Hello, angel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Enter Sandman by Metallica (or the SHEL cover if you're following along in Spotify.)
> 
> This fic has a playlist! If you enjoy music, here are the songs that helped inspire and guide this fanfic: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7jNfMfZcNsuruH6mhpklZW?si=Tn5PrRwuRVWNy08duw-DCA


	15. When I Get My Hands On You

The tree that Gabriel had spotted was far too big for any room in the bunker, but Gabriel reassured him that they would cut several of the bottom limbs off once Dean felled the beast. Given the incredible might of the archangel, Dean wasn’t sure why he was stuck driving a now dulled chainsaw through an evergreen, but he’d be damned if he was going to call it quits. 

Compared to the oak trunk, even with the dulled teeth, the evergreen was quick work, and Dean gave a whoop to signal Gabriel to grab the tall fir before it hit the ground.

As soon as the tree touched his outstretched arms, Gabriel and the tree disappeared. Dean used the opportunity to take several breaths and wipe the sweat from his forehead. 

Apparently he dallied too long before returning to the car because Gabriel reappeared and whisked him back.

They sawed off several of the lower limbs of the tree, then trimmed the stem down too until the tree looked like maybe it would actually fit into the great room. Now the question was how it would fit onto the car. 

Gabriel stuffed a few of the trimmed evergreen boughs into the duffel bag alongside the other holly and mistletoe until the bag could just barely be zipped. Then he dumped it into the back seat, meeting Dean’s glare with an apologetic grin as the bag thudded on the leather.

They wrestled the tree into a tarp and used straps to try to reduce its girth, pressuring the limbs to fold up, but not break. Dean put a blanket over the hood of the Impala and Gabriel single-handedly laid the tree on top of it, giving Dean a pointed look as he did so to demonstrate that he was treating his baby gently.

Finally, they ran straps across the top and in through the windows, cinching the each one tight to secure it to the rough of the car. The drive back would be just a little drafty with the windows open just a centimeter or so around the straps, but it couldn’t be helped.

Dean couldn’t mark the time by the sun with the cloud cover overhead, so he glanced at his phone. If they left in the next ten minutes, they’d actually make it back before dark. 

They idled near the trunk for a few minutes, Dean wiping sweat off his forehead and cooling slowly in the sub-freezing temperatures. 

“Well, this will go down as one of the weirder experiences I’ve ever had picking out a Christmas tree,” Dean offered up the statement like a truce. Some kind of allowance that Gabe might not be so bad.

“Have you had a lot of experiences picking out a Christmas tree?” 

“Fair point.”

“Sam mentioned chinese takeout and Christmas movies.”

The statement gave Dean pause, and he glanced up at Gabriel curiously. Sam was clearly geeked out at the opportunity to dig around in the vast knowledge of an archangel, but sharing childhood stories about them was a different kind of thing. 

Over the past couple of weeks, he’d been so caught up in his own head between the hunt, the dreams and Cas breaking up with him that he’d missed whatever was going on here.

But still, it was just like Sam to actually go and become friends with an unbalanced supernatural being.

Finally, Dean responded, watching Gabriel’s expression closely, “He did, huh?”

The corner of Gabriel’s mouth lifted in the barest smirk, and Dean bristled a little as he recognized the shift, knowing that the detente they had formed today was about to disappear when Gabriel opened his mouth.

“Are you trying to ask me what my intentions are with your brother, Dean?” 

Dean opened his mouth to bite back, but the words dissipated in midair as he watched Gabriel’s expression grow distant and his body go eerily still.

He knew the look like the back of his hand - it was the face Castiel made when he was straining to hear a prayer. Dean’s pulse ratched it up, jumping straight up into his throat. 

“We gotta go,” was all Gabe said before he put his hand on Dean’s shoulder. 

  
  
  


Given that it was a random weekday, there weren’t many people in the Hobby Lobby for demons to possess anyway. And if it had just been those six demons alone, Sam and Cas could have handled it no problem.

It was when demons started streaming in from the parking lot through the automatic sliding door and one even rammed a jeep through the fucking front window that it got out of hand. 

Once the fighting broke out, Sam was slashing with Ruby’s dagger and Castiel was using his hands to mojo blast demons right out of their bodies, but it turned out that exorcism was useless because another demon would just zip into any living body right after the other vacated it. 

Cas switched to his angel blade, incinerating the demons instead. They still got crushed toward the back of the store and farther away from the bags they’d left sitting on the register.

Sam’s human body was the weak spot, and the demons knew it, so they all attempted to avoid the angel while trying to get at Sam with any weapon at their disposal. Castiel flitted around stabbing demons as fast he could, invulnerable to harm, but there were just too many.

Pushed all the way back into the employees only area by a growing horde of demons, Sam grabbed the sleeve of Castiel’s trenchcoat and hauled him into the staff breakroom. He slammed the door behind them and threw his whole weight against it.

Cas put a single hand on the door knob and held it shut as it trembled under the force of demonic strength on the other side.

“We’re fucked,” Sam grated, now sagging against the door to regain his breath. 

On the one hand, they could simply return to the bunker empty-handed. But as stupid as a candle collection and few bells felt as actual weapons to prevent the emergence of a fallen archangel, he knew that so many cases had solutions that seemed fascile. Surely Gabe wouldn’t have risked them all leaving the bunker if this wasn’t important. 

He pulled his phone out and glanced at his notifications. No messages from Dean. Either they hadn’t run into any trouble, or they were too busy handling the trouble they  _ had  _ run into.

“Sam,” Castiel warned, nodding his head upwards, and both of them followed a noise of something clambering through the pipes above them toward the ceiling vent on the other side of the room.

“Alright, yeah,” Sam sighed, then shut his eyes and prayed to the archangel Gabriel. 

A demon tumbled through the vent, landing hard on top of the grate and then jetting to it’s feet. Castiel appeared and stabbed it almost lazily. He peered up into the air vent, expecting more demons to follow.

Sam had to throw all his weight back against the door as it flew open, just barely able to bang it shut. Then suddenly all of the pressure against the door just went slack.

“ **_SAMMY! CAS!_ ** ” 

Sam threw the door open as demons skittered around the corner out of the employee area, back out to the store. Away from them. Toward Dean and Gabe. Castiel flashed forward and stabbed one of the demons before it slipped past the curtain of rubber strips, and Sam sprinted after him. 

“We’re here!” Sam yelled back, emerging into a vast aisle of vases and glassware. 

He felt it before he heard it. All of the glass around them started shaking as if the tectonic plates of the Earth were shifting, then a shrill ring rose up that burst several glasses around them instantly.

“ **SHUT YOUR EYES!** ” Castiel roared as he slammed Sammy down to the ground and shielded his body from a hail storm of broken glass shooting toward them like shrapnel. In shock, Sam pressed his forearms to his ears and kept his eyes shut even after the ground stopped trembling and the glass shards settled on the floor. 

Castiel pulled him up by his coat, allowing him to lean on his grip. His ears continued ringing and his head swam. They crunched over broken glass and Sam noticed distantly that his ungloved hands were covered in little bleeding nicks. 

Shaking his head, Sam finally got with the program and released Castiel and they raced down the aisle to the front of the store. There were so many dead, exorcised bodies now that they had to jump and clamber over them.

As Castiel emerged from the aisle, Sam heard Dean yell, “Cas!” as he got sight of them. 

Gabe and Dean were surrounded by a pile of bodies, a little moving island. Dean waded into the bodies, foot on top of a torso, to plunge his angel blade into a demon’s neck and add to the pile. Demons continued to stream in from the entrance, undeterred by the show of power from Gabriel. 

Gabriel shouted, “Don’t waste your time trying to kill them! We have to get the fuck out of here.”

Leaping over the nearest dead body, Sam reached his brother’s side. He drove Ruby’s dagger into a demon’s kidneys as it thrust a letter opener toward his Dean’s neck. The two lined up back to back instinctually, cutting down any demon that got within their perimeter.

Gabriel flashed away from their side, appearing briefly next to Castiel. 

“This is where we’re going, bro,” he said as he touched two fingers to the angels’ forehead.

He flashed back to them, taking a stab to the back that was intended for Dean’s abdomen without reaction. Gripping his hands on both of their shoulders, he said, “Winchesters, look sharp.”

Both of them stumbled when they hit solid ground, Dean catching himself against the window of the Impala while Sam staggered down to one knee. 

Gabriel’s voice was filled with deadly power as he said, “Get in the car  **_now_ ** .” 

Within seconds, the driver and the passenger door slammed shut and their seat belts were clasped. Dean shoved the keys in and started the engine with a roar. He suddenly paused, casting his gaze around in every direction.

“Where’s Cas?” He panicked as one hand scrabbled to unbuckle his seatbelt and the other threw the door back open. “CAS!”

“Dean, I’m here,” Castiel suddenly appeared in the seat behind Dean’s, placing a steadying hand on Dean’s shoulder. 

Sam watched their eyes meet in the rearview mirror for just a beat, then Dean pulled the door shut again and stomped on the clutch to throw it into gear. Cas withdrew his hand.

A draugr slammed into the hood and flew straight over, scrabbling for purchase, as Dean banked the steering wheel hard to the right and peeled out of the parking lot. The tires threw up gravel as they struggled for purchase on the rough road. 

More bodies thudded against the car. When they hit the paved road, Dean threw it into fifth gear and threw several draugr off into the ditch. Dean steadied the steering wheel with practiced ease as the tires slid out onto the ice and snow, jerking the car left and right. 

There was not a calmer driver under pressure than Dean Winchester. The extra weight in the car helped too, keeping them on the ground instead of flying off into a snowbank. 

Draugr were fast, but not fast enough as Dean pushed the Impala up to 65 mph on the snowy back road. 

Coming down from the adrenaline, Dean exhaled, “Shit. That was close.”

“I haven’t seen that many demons since…” Sam started as he and Dean locked eyes, and he knew he didn’t have to finish the sentence. They were both thinking the same thing.

“Yeah,” Dean hummed.

Since the apocalypse. The consequences of an archangel going darkside hit him with chilling gravity. Except this time there was no one left who could match Gabriel outright, other than Michael, but there was no way they were letting that dick out of the cage. There was also no playbook this time, no prophecies or precedents, so they’d be navigating the fallout in the dark. 

Dean reached the county highway, where the roads were slightly less tricky, and the silence stretched on while Sam’s heart rate slowed down and his body settled back into the seat. A little whistle of air blew in from the windows where the straps prevented the windows from rolling up completely. 

Finally, he craned around and peered back at the two angels sitting in the back seat. A hysterical laugh curled up in his throat as he realized how surreal it was to see them both stuffed uncomfortably against the doors with Dean’s duffel and four plastic Hobby Lobby bags between them and in the floorboard.

“You got them,” he observed, trying to push down his smile. Castiel must have spent those extra seconds retrieving the bags once Gabriel had transported him and Dean out of the melee.

“Yes,” Castiel replied simply, nudging the nearest bag with his foot, causing a jingle to echo through the silence of the car.

Sam couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face then. Castiel’s lips quirked upward just a bit in return, more amusement in his eyes than on his mouth, but Gabe started laughing low in return. Gabe slid his foot over and gave the bag of bells a sounder kick.

The stereo flicked on and the swelling strings of The Christmas Song started playing over the speakers of the Impala. Nat King Cole only got through ‘chestnuts roasting on an open fire,’ before Dean hollered, “Hey!”

He pressed the off button on the stereo, but the orchestral carol kept playing and Nat King Cole continued crooning. Dean glared back at Gabriel’s smirk in the rearview mirror, growling, “Driver picks the music and everyone else shuts their cakehole.”

“All I’m hearing is that you’d prefer the Mariah Carey Christmas album,” Gabriel dead-panned.

Both Winchesters groaned simultaneously, but not another word was uttered about the music.

The day faded into darkness while they drove west, and Dean’s irritation eventually faded,they spent the rest of the ride in companionable silence. Gabriel continued to play Christmas music the rest of the way back to the bunker, although mercifully no Mariah Carey. Sam even noticed Dean humming along at some points when he was too focused on the road to remember himself. 

In the darkness outside the window, snow was falling steady and hushed over the fields as they passed through miles of remote farmland. In spite of the demons and the draugr and the growing threat, it was peaceful, almost cheerful and as close to Christmas as Sam had gotten since college. 

Finally, they reached more familiar surroundings, and Dean pulled up into the drive while Sam hopped out and opened up the garage under the hazy glow of the headlights. 

Once the garage door was closed behind them, Dean immediately went to work on the big tarp-covered tree strapped to the roof, and Cas pitched in to help, unwinding ropes and straps together. Sam reached in the back seat to pull out bags, putting them beside the duffel that Gabriel had dumped onto the wooden table Dean liked to use to prep gear before hunts. 

“Are we safe here?” Sam asked quietly, just to Gabriel.

“I think so,” Gabriel shrugged, but with earnesty instead of flippance. “The wards have held out so far. No reason to think they’ll fail now.”

Together, Castiel and Dean grabbed one end of the tree and dropped it gently onto the cold concrete beside the Impala. Dean started running eyes and fingers over the black paint of the Impala, looking for scrapes and nicks he’d need to take care of later. 

“Did you two run into that kind of trouble?” Sam asked.

“No, mostly just revenants. One demon. Easy peasy,” Gabriel responded, eyes narrowing in an apology. “I thought it would focus on me. I don’t understand why you two ended up in such a big shitstorm.”

Gabriel peeked around in the Hobby Lobby bags, pulling out a few candles and inspecting the bells. While it was every candle on the shelf in the store, sitting on the table, it looked a little sparse.

“Are we going to need to go back out?”

“More Christmas cheer would always be good, but it’s just going to keep getting worse. Presumably until we hit the solstice, if our theory is right,” Gabe shrugged. “It will have to be.”

Sam reached down to grab the tree off the concrete, but Gabriel stopped him with a raised hand before stooping down to place a hand on the nearest branch. Sam didn’t notice that Gabe had grabbed his pant leg too until he stumbled into the Great Room alongside him. 

Gabriel steadied him by pressing the fingertips of one hand to his chest, just below his collarbone, and smiled up at him enigmatically. When their eyes met, it may have been for a beat too long, then Sam stepped away to grab the tree stand. 

Wrestling the tree into the stand should have been a herculean effort with many grunts and much arguing, but Gabriel placed it in the stand and held it steady with ease. 

Impressed, Sam joked, “You’d be handier to have around if you weren’t so mouthy too.” 

He laid down on the floor to twist the screws in around the trunk. He had to scoot across the wood floor on his back underneath the widest branches by a few feet, his torso and his hips underneath the tree to reach the stand.

“In the beginning, the almighty Chuck pulled ether from the heavens to create the angels for the express purpose of putting Christmas trees in stands and making life easier for the Winchesters,” Gabriel intoned theatrically, dropping his voice a few octaves.

“Pretty sure it’s us trying to make your life easier.”

“If you think that, then you don’t know how hard I’m working right now to avoid making jokes about you being on your back underneath me,” Gabe coughed, “I mean, this tree.” 

Sam started to splutter, but reigned it in, remembering he could hide that and his blush underneath the tree. Gabriel’s smirk, though, he could feel, even if he couldn’t see it.

Hand on the final screw, Sam’s brain struggled for a response as he sped up his twisting. None of the screws needed much twisting given that the enormous trunk barely fit into the tree stand anyway. They were lucky the tree stand was big enough to handle the tree at all.

“It would be best to just water this while I’m down here instead of crawling back underneath. This thing is massive,” Sam changed the subject, super smoothly. Oh so smooth. He hated himself. “We may also want to put something heavy, like some rocks or big books on the edges of this tree stand to help keep it steady.” 

Gabriel said nothing in return and Sam craned his head to the right, looking at the tips of his boots, which were pointed toward Sam. The boots turned away, and he heard them retreat out of the room. 

His breath started to slow down and he felt the heat fade. The image, however, of him underneath Gabe did not fade very quickly. In bed, in  _ his  _ bed. Pulling his shirt off over his head and leaning down.

Oh god. Stop it. Stop.

Taking a long breath, he tried to ground himself back in the present. Pine needles were prickling at him, itchy and a little painful as they brushed his clothing.

Gabe’s hands winding behind his ears, through his hair and then tugging firmly, teasingly.

Struggling to hold still, he fidgeted underneath the tree and controlled the small bit of claustrophobia. The giant fir smelled nice, but it was also a bit overwhelming with it literally surrounding him. 

Gabe pinning him back to the bed with a hard stare, then licking a line down from one nipple to his belly button. Winking at him before travelling lower.

His fingers were unpleasantly covered in sticky sap, which he knew would be a bitch to wash off. He focused on the tacky feeling of sap in the webbing of his fingers.

Focus, Sam.

He jumped when he heard steps, feeling himself heat up again at the thought of Gabe actually walking back in the room. Then he heard Dean saying, “Fuck, dude, you look like the Wicked Witch pissed off Santa’s elves or something.”

“I am not particularly familiar with the modern human traditions of Christmas, but this tree seems particularly rotund compared to my expectations,” Castiel agreed.

“Baby definitely got back,” Dean agreed.

Chuckling in relief, Sam thanked god for Dean’s awful jokes, and he replied weakly, “Yeah, the thing is gargantuan.” 

He heard other footsteps return, and he gulped in a shaky breath. To his right, he saw Gabe’s boots and then his knee touch the floor. His hand slid a liter of water in a glass jar through two limbs toward Sam. 

Gabe didn’t withdraw his hand until he was sure Sam had a good grip. The jar was warm, almost hot. Their fingers brushed. 

He closed his eyes for a moment in utter stillness and screamed at himself.

“You alright down there? Do you need to be rescued?” Dean asked.

“No.” Sam bit back. 

Pouring the water in essentially upside down was no easy task, and he didn’t realize he’d reached the top until a bit overflowed onto his head. He jerked away cursing, then shimmed out from underneath the tree. 

His coat was covered in needles and sap, and Dean pulled him up with one hand and hit at his clothes a bit too rough, like he was on fire or something. 

“Dude,” Sam held up his hands, “It’s just pine needles. Don’t beat me to death.” 

“Ugh, now my hands are sticky too,” Dean made a face of disgust.

After they both washed their hands, Dean scrounged up two sandwiches with whatever random things were left in the refrigerator on stale bread that he toasted briefly to try to salvage. They sat at the four person kitchen table, Dean leaning back on two legs with one foot pushing off the table and Cas more perching than sitting. 

Solstice or not, they’d have to get groceries sooner rather than later unless they wanted to eat canned beans and fruit cocktail, but they left that conversation for the following morning. 

After they finished, Sam started washing up the two plates, knife and cutting board, while Dean headed off for his room. After he’d gone, Cas watched after him for a few minutes, looking lost, before he excused himself to go off wherever Cas went if he wasn’t sleeping in Dean’s room. 

Alone in the kitchen with Gabe, it felt like a different kind of alone knowing that neither Cas nor Dean were floating just around some corner somewhere. Once the dishes were done, Sam dried his hands on a towel and bit into an apple that was a little grainy and not particularly juicy anymore, his dessert for the night. 

They were silent as he crunched, and his brain still searched for something to say or do while he tossed the core into the garbage bin. 

Before he could think of something, Gabriel said, “Hey, heads up.”

Then he tossed something high up in the air, giving Sam time to react and catch it as it arced. It caught the light and was cold and hard in his fingers. He opened up his palm and glanced up at Gabe in surprise.

“A quarter?”

“Game of pool?” Gabe offered with a shrug. Sam blinked at him for a second before he connected the dots. 

“If you’re trying to hustle me, you should know I have exactly one dollar, two pennies and a piece of gum in my wallet,” Sam replied, but he opened the refrigerator anyway and snagged the very last beer before following Gabe off toward the game room anyway. 

“Hah! We can play for pride, not money.”

“I don’t know if I want to bet my pride on beating you either.”

It dawned on Sam that he was becoming friends with an archangel. Or maybe friends was the wrong term. He wasn’t ready to figure out what the right term was though.

Walking into the entrance to the game room, Gabe spun on one foot to look at Sam with a grin. “I’ll go easy on you,” he reassured.

Room 26, the game room as the Winchesters called it, really just seemed like an old cigar lounge for the Men of Letters. Most of the times the Men of Letters appeared as a very legitimate enterprise, but the game room just made it seem like a mason’s lodge or something where 1950s gentlemen went to pretend to do important business while they got away from their kids and wives. 

That isn’t to say that Sam and Dean hadn’t taken their frustration out many times on a furious game of ping-pong on the table folded up in the closet, or that Dean hadn’t fleeced him plenty of times in the name of “practice” at the pool table. 

A small wet bar stood in one corner and an old-school circular poker table in the other. A couple of high wooden stools were tucked under two tall bars built into the walls, running lengthwise toward the back. In the center of the room, beneath three green glass pendant lights with brass finishes, there was a ten foot green-felted pool table with claw-footed wooden legs. 

Gabriel reached under the table to grab the rack and started arranging the balls, so Sam grabbed the break cue and started chalking the tip. 

The cues were shit, warped due to the passing of time more than abuse, but they never had a lot of time to play anyway. For them, pool was an occasional necessity, not a pastime. Plus, playing with crappy cues was better practice for the house cues in the dive bars they frequented.

Sam leaned over and lined up the break cue at the diamond formation Gabriel had created. With a crack, the balls scattered and the seven ball sank in the right corner pocket. 

He switched out the break cue for a regular cue. Then he sussed out his options. There was no point in putting too much thought into it - he couldn’t beat an archangel. A break and run seemed like the only way to win, and Sam had never once managed that.

Plus, there was no way to reach the two without banking the cue ball against another wall, so he was already screwed. He flubbed up the english and the cue ball went sailing past, hitting uselessly against the orange five ball. 

“Tough shot, kiddo,” Gabe shrugged as he took the cue from Sam’s hand. 

Sam perched on a stool and took a sip of his beer while Gabriel lined up the shot, which was in a considerably better position after Sam’s crappy bank. The atmosphere in the game room was comfortable, so comfortable Sam almost felt like he could ask Gabe anything and he might get an honest answer.

“So why did you actually come to us for help?” Sam tested.

On the other side of the table, Gabriel lifted his eyes away from the shot to arch an eyebrow at Sam and smirk. He flicked the cue without looking, sinking the blue two into the side pocket, while the cue ball rolled back perfectly in line for Gabe’s next shot on the three. 

“What can I say? Brothers bickering and echatological drama just makes me feel right at home.”

Sam rolled his eyes. Fucking show off.

He was annoyed that he’d read the atmosphere wrong, thinking he might actually get a straight answer for once. Gabe barely even looked as he tipped in the three, already resting on the edge of the corner pocket, an easy mark.

As Sam considered, it occurred to him that while Gabe was deflecting with humor, maybe he was being honest. He started working through some theories aloud.

“Ok, so you left heaven because God ran off and your brothers couldn’t get along. You looked for other families - the pagan gods, the Norse gods…”

“But the apocalypse was inevitable and ruined those families too… blah, blah, blah,” Gabe finished flippantly, but he took a bitter shot at the four and missed. Sam hopped up, feeling like he was getting somewhere. Gabe handed off the cue and stepped away from the table.

The four ball was at the far end of the table, right against the wall, and the cue ball was in the middle. Sam had an advantage on this shot on the big table with his height. 

He leaned almost in half over the table to line up the shot, before he said, “Right, but now all of that is over. Lucifer is destroyed. Michael is trapped in the cage. Chuck and Amara have left again. The angels are scattered and leaderless. And Hell… well, hell is under kind of reasonable management.”

Sam hit the four right on the edge and it rolled neatly down the wall into the left corner pocket.

Leaning back up off the table, he caught Gabe’s eyes lingering on him and, with dismay, felt the same heat from early creep up his neck. 

“Yep, the assholes are gone,” Gabe replied. Without humor. But definitely with a little bit of open hunger in his gaze.

Gulping, Sam turned away, circling around the table to eye the five ball. Self-consciously about stretching his torso out over the table, he neglected to line the shot up right and ended up sailing right past the five.

Gabriel held out his hand for the cue without comment. With precision, Gabe neatly cleaned up the five, six and the eight. None of them were particularly hard shots, although the eight was across the table from the five and six. Sam still wondered if he had somehow gotten too close to Gabe’s constant secrets and was close to getting shut down. 

Then, without fanfare, Gabe knocked the nine ball to the edge of the pocket, but not into the pocket, leaving Sam with a perfect and easy win. 

Sam scrunched up his face. 

“I don’t want a pity win.”

Gabe grinned, “It’s not pity. You’re just distracting.”

Flustered, Sam snatched the cue from Gabe’s hands, accidentally brushing his fingers in his rush, and the touch only made him blush harder as he jerked away. 

“Sam,” Gabriel intoned, utterly sincere, although Sam couldn’t see his face as he stalked around the pool table stubbornly not looking at Gabe. “I have always wanted nothing except for my family to get along. I didn’t know what you would do when I came here. But you allowed me to stay.”

Forcing himself to breathe so he didn’t miss this embarrassingly easy shot with his shaking hands, Sam tapped the cue ball and it rolled toward the nine, gently rolling it into the pocket. 

Still without meeting Gabe’s eyes, he answered, “Dean let you stay.”

Gabriel laughed. Threw back his head and laughed. Sam looked then, eyes drawn to the scrubby beard on his neck moving over his adam’s apple. 

“You’re right, Sam,” Gabriel said finally, eyes shining with mirth. Then he continued, with wonder in his tone, “You are so damn fucking smart.”

Sam felt himself preen at the compliment, closely followed by disgust that his ego was so easy to stoke. As he struggled to stamp down his reaction, Gabe just looked on with the same wonder and fondness. 

Finally, Sam met his eyes, and Gabe let it go with a shrug, asking, “Eight ball?”

As Gabe re-racked the balls, including the stripes this time with the solids, their conversation drifted back to safer topics: what was Heimdall like and was there actually a rainbow bridge, how to safely light real candles in a Christmas tree, Dean’s shitty taste in beer. After two more games of eight ball, Sam had come down from the adrenaline of the day enough to yawn. 

Gabe made a bank shot that required a level of english only a physicist would understand and sunk the eight ball in the right side pocket as Sam rubbed at his eyes. 

“Oh sure. Decide that you’re tired right when it’s finally your turn to rack,” Gabe quipped. 

“Next time,” Sam promised as Gabe tucked the cue back into wooden fingers built into the wall next to the break cue. With a goodnight to Gabe, Sam headed off to bed, leaving Gabe to do whatever angels did during the night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from When I Get My Hands On You by Bob Dylan, as performed by The New Basement Tapes.
> 
> This fic has a playlist! If you enjoy music, here are the songs that helped inspire and guide this fanfic: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7jNfMfZcNsuruH6mhpklZW?si=Tn5PrRwuRVWNy08duw-DCA.


	16. Did I Let You Down?

The next day Castiel rose from his silent watch, standing near the fountain in the Green Room, as he felt Sam’s mind claw out of a nightmare. At this point, Castiel may as well have been an expert on human sleep cycles - the nature of the dreams created by the visits from the Wild Hunt were so disturbing and realistic that they created a psychic echo through the bunker. 

The nightmares were worst in the early hours of morning, often coming to a climax that pushed either of the two humans awake with a jolt. They slept more deeply, with fewer dreams, earlier in the night. He had read about REM sleep once, fascinated at first by the commonality of the peaks and valleys Dean’s brain moved through in sleep. 

He supposed that the Wild Hunt here only had the ability to infiltrate a dream in motion, rather than forcing them into a REM state all night long. 

Neither Winchester was a stranger to horror or trauma, however, and Castiel doubted the dreams could do any worse than reality already had. As Sam shook off the dream and headed toward the kitchen for coffee, Castiel likewise returned his thoughts and intentions to the mortal plane and joined him. 

“Morning,” Sam greeted him, dressed in heavy, insulated sweats, a hooded sweatshirt and thick wool socks. He opened the tin of coffee and scrunched up his nose, apparently not pleased with what he discovered there. 

“Good morning, Sam.”

“I hate to say it, but I don’t think we’re making it to the 21st without a grocery run.”

The bunker used to be home to an impressive cache of non-perishable food as well as functional garden with edibles and other practical items, Castiel had not yet made much progress on the garden and the Winchesters had dumped most of the stored food after determining it was decades past its best-by date. 

Dean joined them later, still shaking off the remnants of his dream with his typical gruff nonchalance. 

Breakfast was underwhelming and demonstrative of the state of their food stores: instant oatmeal, cheese that Dean scraped the mold off of and too little coffee, which was stretched farther by adding more water. 

With the solstice only two nights away, Castiel volunteered himself to go to the grocery store, given that very few demons possessed a weapon that could harm him, draugr were no real threat to him and he wasn’t a magnet for the forces of evil. Dean and Sam both seemed leery about that plan, but Castiel reassured them that if they composed a list, he could read the labels and ask for assistance if needed.

Food might be unnecessary for him, but he’d watched the two of them cook often enough or order at a diner that he had a working understanding of human alimentation. 

Because it was a Sunday, he would have to wait until afternoon to go, and promised to return with lunch for the humans. Castiel joined Sam and Dean in the Great Room, where both of them had taken a strange stance, staring at the tree with their heads tilted to one side.

“What is it?” Castiel asked looking between them both and the tree.

“Is it just me, or is the tree crooked?” Sam asked.

“Definitely not just you,” Dean agreed.

Castiel looked over. The great fir was indeed listing a bit to the side, in spite of standing straight the night before. 

“Should we fix it?” 

“Unimportant. If it offends your sense of Christmas tradition, you can fix it. But a crooked tree is still a tree to the Holly King,” Gabriel explained, appearing from the ether and dropping Dean’s duffel down on a nearby table.

“Referring to yourself in the third person makes you sound like a real douchebag, man,” Dean said.

“The archangel Gabriel is utterly unphased by your lack of approval,” Gabriel shot back, and Dean just snorted in good humor. 

Castiel’s eyes flicked back and forth between them, noticing that the two had developed a better rapport the day before while they collected items from the woods.

Dean turned back toward the tree and shrugged, “Feels kind of fitting, I guess. The threat of impending doom, a crooked-ass cheese wheel of a Christmas tree, some stupid children’s story come true. It’s a real Winchester Christmas special.” 

They left the tree as it was and focused on unpacking all of the bags across the tables in the Great Room. Satisfied that it served a legitimate purpose this time, even Dean joined in as they placed the decorations throughout the room and the bunker at Gabriel’s instructions.

They placed the candles throughout the Great Room, putting saucers and plated beneath any of the pillar candles, and then on each flat surface leading out through the hallway, past the living room and into the foyer up to the entrance to the bunker. Sam hung bells on the door handles along the way, putting the genuine-article silver bells they’d discovered in the chest of decor at the bunker on the inside handle of the front door to the bunker.

Gabriel explained how each measure warded the entry to the Great Room, where they would ultimately face the Holly King. The decorations were theorized to weaken the presence along the way as it entered the bunker. 

Bells to weaken the Holly King and warn them of his presence.

Boughs of evergreen and the big fir tree granted strength to the Oak King, his opponent, as symbols of life conquering death.

Candles to light the darkest night and keep away evil.

Weedy, white-berried balls of Mistletoe hung in the entryways from string to protect them from harm.

Green twines of ivy and prickly holly leaves with clusters of red berries were placed over the fireplace mantle and along the shelves. Any plants that stayed green through winter were wards against the Holly King, who embodied darkness, cold and death. 

Dean happened to pass through the limen of the foyer at the same time as Castiel, stepping underneath a sprig of mistletoe that Gabriel had recently pinned there, and their eyes met with brief panic as they froze beneath the parasitic bit of greenery.

Flattening himself against the doorway, Dean slid by him and they silently agreed to ignore tradition. 

From that point on, Castiel paid attention to Dean’s movements so he could place himself elsewhere, but he found that paying so much attention to Dean was painful. Dean was humming Christmas tunes as he scattered candles around, occasionally sniffing the scented ones and scrunching up his nose at some of them. It was endearing, and Castiel felt claws of longing reach up in his chest. 

What he missed the most were the casual signs of closeness, not the big sweeping ones. Not that he was accustomed to grand gestures from Dean, nor did he desire them. But he found that he missed sex less than the implicit expectation that he would sleep at Dean’s side. He missed sliding his tongue into Dean’s mouth less than the permission to rest his hand against the base of Dean’s spine. He missed the warmth that touched Dean’s eyes when their gaze met.

Worse even was to imagine all of those things being granted to another. As guilt and fear swept over him, he tried to hang on to Sam’s words that jealousy was common, and that it was his choice how he acted on them. 

Twelve o-clock arrived too slowly, and while Castiel could have gone to any grocery store in the world, he couldn’t think of one more remote and less visited than the one outside of Lebanon, KS. If everyone turned into a demon, the collateral damage would be low, and there were fewer graveyards nearby for draugr to rise from.

Eventually, Castiel excused himself, taking the piece of paper with the grocery list and a one hundred dollar bill from the kitchen table where Dean had left it. 

His visit to the grocery store did attract demons and draugr, but as he expected, there were few enough humans or deceased humans nearby to create much trouble. Although it also meant he had no one to ask when he had questions about how to select “cereal” from an entire aisle of options. He realized that he should have asked Sam to review the list beforehand because Dean’s was horribly unclear.

When he returned, Dean predictably grumbled at his choices, “Dude, Raisin Bran?” 

“It seemed nutritious,” Cas explained while Dean held up the purple box with a sun on it. “It has dried fruits in it.”

“I’m not exactly aiming to make it to eighty, Cas.”

Sam was more impressed with his choices, but it was also more challenging to mess up items like lettuce or apples given that there were far fewer options.

Castiel also collected wood from the shed, noticing that without a fire to warm the bunker, both Sam and Dean were wearing multiple layers and their coats indoors. Compared to the grocery store, the sparse bit of woods around the bunker teeming was far more demons and draugr, roaming in packs across the snowy landscape, but unable to actually breach the bunker.

With no humans around to worry about, Castiel simply assumed his natural form, his dark wings sweeping out through the material plane, and the unearthly holy light consumed any creature that came within twenty feet. He collapsed back into his human form as he reloaded the tipped wheelbarrow with wood and teleported the rickety metal bucket into the storeroom inside the bunker. 

Dean met him there and grabbed an armful of wood, then he started a fire in the hearth while Castiel piled up logs into the rack nearby. 

When the rack was full and the fire had caught, Dean rubbed his hands on his jeans and turned to him, saying, “Hey, I have something to show you.”

Castiel tilted his head at him in surprise. Dean’s face displayed some discomfort and insecurity briefly before he turned away and walked off toward the hallway. Castiel guessed he was meant to follow, so he hustled to catch up. 

His anxiety and anticipation started to build as they turned down toward Dean’s room, but they passed by it, and Castiel returned to confusion as Dean turned into Charlie’s room. Castiel had noticed that the door was left ajar the past few days, but he had not considered it much. 

“Tadaa,” Dean held out his hands as Castiel followed him inside, spinning around on his heel jauntily. 

Castiel glanced around, noticing that the bed was made, but he saw nothing else of note. 

“You made Charlie’s bed?” He ventured, trying to understand where Dean was going with this.

“No,” Dean scowled in frustration. “Well, yes. But I made it for you. It’s your room now.”

He stared blankly for some time while he made sense of the words. His eyes flitted around the room. He hoped he reigned in his facial expressions well enough, because it felt like he’d been stabbed and light was pouring out of him. 

He was gutted.

“This is… unexpected,” Castiel managed, attempting a grateful smile that he feared looked more nauseous than anything else.

“Yeah, sorry,” Dean looked abashed. “I’m an ass. I should have thought about it sooner, but I didn’t realize you didn’t have your own place here until Israfil grace-bombed you.”

Uncomfortable, Dean took a few steps away and grabbed a book off the bedside table like it was the most interesting thing in the world. Castiel, of course, knew it was a diversionary tactic. But he was glad for the time to school his own features and figure out an appropriate response.

He did not want this room. He had no need for a bed that did not have Dean in it. He supposed he should be honored that Dean would offer him this room, Charlie’s room, which he’d closed off like a tomb for almost a year, but it was difficult to feel grateful when he was too busy wanting to throw Dean against the wall and scream at him.

Disgust shivered down through him as his fingers flexed. Sam told him this was a normal emotion in intimate relationships, but it felt so wrong to want to shake Dean until some sign of regret fell out. 

“Thank you,” Castiel grated out, hoping that Dean might leave if he reacted as expected.

Dean looked up at him, clearly not buying it, “You don’t like it. There are other rooms.”

“It’s fine,” Castiel took a deep, steadying breath. “Truly. I appreciate you ensuring that I feel welcome here.”

“It comes complete with nerdy literature,” Dean grinned, but it looked more like a grimace, as he waved the large green tome into the air. 

Like a fire in a closed box, his fury consumed too much air and started to dwindle, returning to the baseline of melancholy he was familiar with. Dean was truly trying, and he was being greedy. 

Castiel sat down on the edge of the bed thoughtfully, searching for the right words. 

“Alright, well I’ll just let you get set-” Dean tried to back out of the room awkwardly.

“Dean,” Castiel said, the seriousness of his tone stopping Dean right in his tracks. “I need to tell you something.”

Eyeing him warily, Dean hovered in the doorway looking for all intents and purposes like a cornered animal. 

“Dude, it’s just a room. No chick flick moments necessary.”

Castiel took a deep breath and started, “Sam helped me recognize - ”

Dean rolled his eyes, and Castiel knew the interruption was coming as Dean’s expression went flat, “Well if Sam said it.”

“- that I may have not been entirely fair to you - ” Castiel continued, increasing his volume to try to get through to Dean.

He knew it was a lost cause before he got there because Dean’s eyes went hard and dark as he interrupted again, “Don’t do me any fucking favors, Cas.”

Castiel finished his sentence quietly, knowing it wasn’t heard, as Dean stalked out of the room.

“- by not explaining that I’ve been struggling with jealousy over your feelings for Amara.”

He fell back down on the bed weakly, which smelled like cedar wood, but was soft and comfortable. For an indeterminate period of time, he floated through his feelings, both gratified at seeing some anger again from Dean, while also disappointed at himself that he hadn’t worded it better so that Dean would listen.

What he did know, for certain, was that he would not stay in this room. He waited and stretched out his grace, feeling for the other occupants of the bunker. 

Dean was vacuuming out the Impala and repairing any scrapes or scratches, his presence flustered and prickly. Sam stretched out in the den with a book, processing some internal conflict under a dispassionate microscope. Gabriel brooded in the study, his mood growing darker throughout the day like an omen of what was to come. Castiel wondered if the decorations were having some sort of impact on him, as the intended target of the wards, or if it was the pull of the darkness as they approached the solstice. 

Finally, Castiel returned to the Green Room for the first time in several days, taking care to close the door once more to Charlie’s room so that it wasn’t quite so conspicuous to Dean that he was eschewing Dean’s gift. 

The seedlings he’d started in a few pots had grown into small plants, although they were all looking a little browned around the edges, likely from cold and lack of water. The room was warmer today from the cast iron vent travelling in from the fireplace and the sun coming down from the glass ceiling. 

In the privacy of the Green Room, Castiel hunched over with grief and struggled to control his bodily response. If he ate, he would have vomited it up. He gulped in air as if he needed it, as if he was a fish flopping on the shore. 

His grace spasmed and contracted, and he reached out his will as if it had hands, gripping his higher being tight and held himself until he was still.

Among his modest project, he slipped into a meditative state, pulling deep inside the depths of his being until he regained his equilibrium.

Then he channeled his sadness and pain straight out, using it like an instrument of grace to grow the garden. It was more challenging to restrain himself this time, but he was able to focus on finding joy in the barest changes in the soil or the slightest twitch of a green seed unfurling.

Over time, the cold-snapped leaves of the existing plants repaired themselves, perking back up and flushing with the almost yellow, spring green of new growth. In other planters, the dirt became loamy and lush, then fragrant oregano spilled over and tumbled over the edges. A single glossy red-tinged leaf poked out of a large blue pot, the first sign of a rose bush he intended to twine up over an iron trellis nailed to the wall. 

After he’d exhausted the grace he was willing to spare, he stayed put, legs crossed on the tile floor of the Green Room and his eyes closed. After some time, he felt Gabriel’s presence join him, uneasy, but controlled. He felt grateful for the strength and solace of the archangel.

Together, they communed in silence and utter stillness through the night. If anyone had walked by, they would have looked like two statues in a meager garden, one sitting in a meditative pose and the other leaning back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.

  
  
  


Tension mounted the final day before the solstice as Gabriel’s mood sank further. The archangel did nothing overtly unsettling, mostly just lurked in uncharacteristic silence near the fire. Sam watched him warily from a nearby table, spending time with his computer and a stack of books as if he was cramming before a final exam. 

If Gabriel went insane the next day, Dean knew that their lives would get thrown into chaos again, that is if he didn’t smoke them all instantly and flatten the bunker to a pile of wood and bricks. 

Dean slept poorly, haunted by nightmares of people close to him fucking and drinking and dying, and eaten up with shame at his outburst at Cas. He’d been surprised by Cas’ response to the room. Of course, he knew Cas didn’t have to sleep, but he thought the gesture would have been recognized for what it was - an invitation to remain a part of the family. 

His response was confusing, but he was furious imagining Sam and Cas sitting around talking about Dean being an absolute idiot and falling in love with Cas, then Sam coaching Cas on the proper way to break up with him.

Embarrassment roiled in him. He did not want or need pity. 

Dean snuck out of his room and listened for any signs of Sam, glad to see his door still closed. He grabbed a beer out of the frig, but thought better of it and decided to grab the bottle of whisky and a glass instead. It was the night before the showdown, not the day of, so he could afford to get drunk. They might not survive the solstice anyway.

Drinking whisky and luxuriating under the spray and steam of the shower for thirty minutes was both sad and petty, but Sam fucking deserved a cold shower. Dean’s pre-”life is about to become a fucking shitshow” rituals usually involved drinking, eating red meat, trying to get laid, and failing that, jerking off in the shower. 

He sure as hell wasn’t getting laid, and the alternative held zero appeal. 

Being cooped up at the holidays with the guy who was breaking your fucking heart and didn’t even realize it was a good kick to your libido, Dean discovered. 

So instead, Dean was going to get drunk and watch Die Hard, just in case he wouldn’t get the opportunity to do so on Christmas day, and eat a hamburger because at least Cas got that right at the grocery store. 

Once he got out of the shower, he refilled the glass of whisky and put his headphones on as he dropped back onto the bed, fully clothed, trying to drown out the loop of emotions spinning through his head with heavy bass and electric guitar. 

Every relationship he’d ever had he’d left to fight alongside John, and then Sam - to save people and not put others in danger through association with him.

It was ironic. Downright hilarious in fact that he’d found Cas and by some miracle Cas had somehow been interested in return. Then somewhere along the way, he’d fooled himself into thinking it might be something he could keep. 

In whatever way anything in their life was for keeps anyway. Maybe it was because death rarely took for them, or because death had been such a constant specter he had literally become a friend. But losing Castiel through death or possession was one thing, but just losing him in life so he could go and do… well, whatever… that was just fucking shitty. 

He wasn’t just missing Cas like a hole in his chest, like he did Bobby, like he did his father. 

For so long Cas had treated him like he was the person in the world who mattered most - uniquely valued, worthwhile, good. Cas missed many of the opportunities for big gestures, and made some really stupid misteps, but he was steady, always there, and always took small opportunities to take care of Dean.

Dean missed that. He missed the illusion of being wanted and worthwhile, of being that person that someone would do anything for the way others were to him.

That sat in his head until it curdled, his stomach turning acidic and rumbling from his poor decisions that morning. Dean ignored it for as long as he could, and then finally stumbled up to make that burger. 

The scent of cooking meat floated out of the kitchen and eventually drew Sam, who had no idea what was going on when Dean glared silently at him as he asked, “Making burgers?”

Sam backed out of the room like a kicked puppy, and Dean grumbled as he grabbed another handful of ground beef and begrudgingly made Sam a burger too. 

When Dean dropped a plate unceremoniously with a perfectly cooked medium-rare burger in front of Sam as he sat reading in the Great Room, he refused to think of it as passive aggressive, because that was a chick thing. 

Sam raised an eyebrow at Dean, who just stalked out of the room and returned to his burger and Die Hard in the den. Watching the opening credits calmed him, and Dean switched from whisky to beer, a headache already coming on.

By the time Sam joined him, perching as far away as he could on the other end, Dean had relaxed considerably into the couch. Still, Sam wisely remained silent. 

Neither of them spoke until John McClane was crawling through the AC ducts of the Nakatomi Corporation, and both of them quoted in unison in their best New York accent, “Come out to the coast. We’ll get together, have a few laughs.”

Sam snorted under his breath, and the corner of Dean’s mouth quirked up.

“It’s been a few years since we’ve done this,” Sam commented. He physically unwound and propped his absurdly long Big Bird legs up on the coffee table. 

“Can’t say I’m entirely happy about being cooped up in the bunker, but this is nice,” Dean agreed, sipping on his beer. It was warm.

Sam shrugged, “Well, by the day after tomorrow, it’ll be over, win or lose.”

They sat in silence for a while, but it was comfortable, quoting the best lines together. It was so hard to stay mad at Sam. And Cas for that matter. He hated them both. He wished he could hate them anyway.

But it was so rare to actually get to do any kind of Christmas with his brother, even if it was December 20th and he was jumping the gun on Die Hard.

Dean turned to Sam. 

“I hate to even say it because I feel like it’ll jinx it and this time next year we’ll be in fucking hell or purgatory or stuck in one of Gabe’s endless gameshow fantasies, but we should do Christmas more often. Not like, stuck in the bunker for two weeks straight kind of Christmas, but takeout, Die Hard and whisky should be an annual thing.”

“I’m down for that,” Sam replied, tipping the neck of his beer toward Dean. Dean leaned his beer in too and the amber glass bottles clinked in a promise, or at least good intentions. 

He downed the hour-old dregs of the warm beer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Did I Make You Cry on Christmas Day? (Well, You Deserved It) by Peach Pit (as styled by Baylee if you're following along in Spotify.)
> 
> This fic has a playlist! If you enjoy music, here are the songs that helped inspire and guide this fanfic: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7jNfMfZcNsuruH6mhpklZW?si=Tn5PrRwuRVWNy08duw-DCA.


	17. The Power In Your Voice, Your Rough Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POVs start to get a little slippery here as we head into the solstice and the boys are tested.

Both hands down on the table, Sam instructed, “Give us the lay of the land here.”

An arsenal of weapons, selected and assembled carefully by Dean, covered the table between them. They had enabled the lock down system on the bunker about mid-day before the sun past its peak, and salted every window sill and entrance throughout the bunker, including a thick line running along the bottom of the garage door. 

The enormous log was loaded into the fireplace, and they’d gotten the embers going beneath it and lit some tinder around it, trying to coax the oak trunk to catch fire. 

Around 3pm, with the day already growing darker in the gray haze of the overcast sky outside, the four of them reconvened in the Great Room around a table. None of them sat, however, as adrenaline started to build. 

“The trials… it’s hard to explain in words. For me it’s always been a bit like a dream, or a nightmare. The Holly King takes on a form based on my own psyche and tries to overcome me. But it’s never been a big challenge to win in the past.”

Sam considered his answer for a bit, and then clarified, “What was last year like?”

Gabriel’s face twisted uncomfortably, as if it was a personal detail he’d rather not reveal.

“Come on, dude. We’re about to help you fight off  _ yourself _ . Can the shy violet shit and just tell us,” Dean pushed irritably. 

“Well, I guess we’re all about to get intimate with each other’s demons here soon,” Gabe sighed. He glanced at Sam apologetically as he said, “Last year I was locked in the cage with Michael and Lucifer.”

Dean watched Sam swallow down his reaction. Gabe’s worst nightmare had been Sam’s actual life. 

“Ok, and you had to fight your way out?” Dean pressed.

“No. I had to think my way out,” Gabe answered. “Sometimes I have to fight, but other times it’s more nuanced. Like a mental or emotional test. It will probably summon up whatever is the most personally challenging for us.”

Sam met Dean’s eyes with a wry look. Physical fights they could take any day. 

“Sounds like the Holly King is going to be opting for a mindfuck then,” Dean announced.

“What happens if we lose?” Cas asked.

“I don’t know. I’ve never lost. I’ve also never needed sidekicks to win before. Maybe I go insane? Maybe we all do?” 

Dean knew it was unfair, but he still snapped, “Well you’re just a wealth of helpful information.”

Gabriel glared at him, eyes flashing briefly with an unearthly glow. His fists tightened with obvious effort, and the light faded as his eyes returned to brown. Cas shifted beside him on the other side of the table, his right hand inching up - the one that wielded his angel blade.

“Let’s light the candles,” Sam interrupted, voice laced tight with energy.

Dean took his bic lighter and stalked off to the farthest candles at the entrance to the bunker, making his way back one-by-one through the foyer, the den and finally the hallway back to the Great Room. Sam stood on a wooden chair, wookie that he was, lighting the candles perched among the giant tree. 

They lit each of the many candles placed on tables and shelves throughout the Great Room, blanketing the room in a pulsing, warm glow and the conflicting scents of every variety of candle from Hobby Lobby. 

Gabriel had returned moodily to the fire, and Cas watched him with sharp eyes, ready to sacrifice himself to the holy fire of an archangel if he suddenly turned. 

While the windows at the mezzanine level grew dimmer, the yule log began to catch in earnest, warming the room. The entire atmosphere was a stark contrast to the mood - cheery, toasty and Christmas-y as fuck. 

Dean patted his hands over his coat and pockets for the millionth time, feeling the angel blade and his other weapons still present. 

His eyes flickered to Sam’s face, who was staring with a little alarm toward Gabriel. Dean followed his gaze. 

Was it just him, or was the fire starting to dwindle?

Striding over, Dean grabbed the poker to rearrange the kindling around the yule log. Before he touched it, the flames extinguished with a whoosh, like all the oxygen sucked up through the chimney. 

“Damn it,” Dean cursed, reaching for his lighter.

Dean heard a subtle chime of bells, tinkling as if a slow breeze was travelling through the hallway. A chill fingered up his spine. 

“It’s starting.” Gabe said. His voice held a dull undercurrent of power, like a distant rumble of thunder.

Turning, Dean watched Castiel stride over to the shelf, opening a hand to relight the nearest candle with his grace. The shelves, tables, the tree - all were dim and unlit again. 

Castiel turned his palm up toward his face in confusion, as if it was his hand, not his grace, that was malfunctioning. The candles were not responding to him at all.

Frustrated, Castiel flew to the kitchen, materializing next to the cabinets where the matches were stored. He rummaged through the drawers, trying to track down the pile of assorted matchbooks.

Behind him, the tv flicked on, light and noise filling the room. He sensed, more than felt, Gabriel’s presence behind him and turned in frustration. Why was Gabriel watching television instead of helping relight the candles? 

“I’m trying to relight the candles. They aren’t responding to my grace,” He explained, but his hands stilled.

Wait. What candles?

The point started to drift away from him, as if he and his thoughts were floating on water. 

What had he been doing? 

“Castiel.”

He turned to Gabriel, but Lucifer was there instead. Leaning heavily against the countertop beside the television, Lucifer clutched at his abdomen and panted, his mouth dripping blood.

A hand jerked him by the hair and Lucifer fell to his knees, gasping. 

“Dean is very worried about you,” Amara said. Her column of pale skin was pristine in her black dress, only her fingers stained with Lucifer’s blood. She took her hand away from his hair, and he thumped down to the floor without the support of her grip. She flicked off the television with a careless wave. 

Exhaustion swept over him. She was here  _ again  _ to press him for Dean’s location.

He knew that she had only been torturing Lucifer for a few hours, but time was immaterial since Amara had captured them both. She rewrote the rules - slowing, stopping or reversing time to suit her purposes. 

“Once again, I don’t know where Chuck is, and I will not take you to Dean,” Castiel replied, as he had a thousand times before already. 

She stepped over Lucifer from where he now sprawled on the floor, too breathless from pain to speak. She raised her left hand, free of blood, to touch his cheek. 

“We can end this if you will just reach out to him and sway him to see me.”

She was trying to break Lucifer with pain so great that he would call out for their father. Castiel knew Lucifer had inflicted far worse on others, so he felt little sympathy for the fallen angel. 

But with Castiel, she had not tried to break him with physical torture or pain. In fact, he was uncertain if she was trying to break him at all, or merely appeal to his reason and empathy. 

He did feel compassion for her situation, now that he more fully understood it. She had also been abandoned by his Father. She seemed neither particularly good nor evil, more just a being acting in accordance with her nature, which was to embody the Darkness. Castiel also knew what it was to act in accordance with his nature before discovering free  will. 

But he would never reveal Dean or Sam’s location.

Castiel pulled his hand away from her touch and gazed at her placidly in return.

“He doesn’t understand my intentions,” she appealed again. “If he did, he would not be trying to stop me.”

“Perhaps, but that is not for me to decide,” Castiel answered, slumping down onto a nearby stool, tired of rehashing this same conversation over and over. 

Her eyes turned hard.

“Castiel, this is foolish. You know he wants to see me again. Even you can’t deny that.”

His eyes slid shut even as she stalked over to him. She would need to do far worse to get him to break. 

But it didn’t stop him from acknowledging what she said as the truth. He knew that Dean and Amara shared some sort of connection. That he was incapable of hurting her - he had been capable of hurting Castiel and even Sam, but he couldn’t lift a finger against Amara. 

There was something between them that was unique. He was  _ gentle  _ with her, at least when she wasn’t a concept of the Darkness he was considering from afar, but a being in the form of a woman right in front of him.

She persisted in response to his silence.

“We are connected in a way you cannot understand. I can tell that you love him, but he does not,  _ cannot _ , love you the way you want,” she grabbed his chin and forced him to look at her. “Not the way he loves me.”

“Dean is the righteous man,” Castiel replied without inflection. “He contains both the dark and the light, and he chooses the right way.”

She continued on as if he had not spoken, analyzing something in or maybe beyond his eyes. Castiel could not tell how far she could see into his being.

“You know he doesn’t love you?” She mused, as if she’d discovered something fascinating under a microscope.

The words thrummed in him with a sense of deja vu. He had done this before. 

“I can tell you this. I’ve seen inside his heart, and what he feels for you is pity not love. He feels indebted, not devoted.”

This had already happened before. Over and over again, in fact. Amara had come to him thousands of times.

This was a test. A trial. But what was he supposed to be doing? 

Her eyes glowed blue and her being began to burn around the edges, blazing white. She seemed to loom above him. Either that or he grew smaller.

“Let me show you.” Her voice filled with power as she touched her lips to his. He flinched as all of Dean’s emotions swept through him.

An entirely different form of torture, she laid bare Dean’s mind for him for the thousandth time. It was abhorrent first and foremost because he knew how private Dean was. It made him complicit in a betrayal of Dean’s trust.

He was embarrassed each time to find that he had hoped in some small way that Dean could grow to love him. Instead, Dean viewed their relationship as convenient, easy.

As memories and emotions were forced into his mind, he disassociated from his body. 

He was watching the scene from the outside. Before him, his body twitched and he held his mouth in a hard line as Amara held him still and poured power down through his eyes.

There was something he had to remember. 

He needed to overcome some form of darkness. This was some kind of battle. A trial. 

What was the lesson? 

He scrambled furiously for meaning in the vision.

What was the lesson?

In the future, he had released Dean already. Had he not? He’d confronted that darkness and fear already, and let Dean go. 

Was his test to let Dean go from his soul? To release him from his proverbial heart? He felt a jolt of terror realizing he would fail. He could not change his hope, his desires so quickly.

“Let him go so that he can truly live. You are a burden,” Amara’s voice shook through his reverie, snapping him back to look at the Castiel in the room. “He will never look at you the way he looks at me.”

Still looking in at the figures in the room, playing out a memory, he floated further away. He looked down at his shaking hands and realized he could see the pattern of the floor tile through them. 

He was disappearing from view, but still there, as if he was being buried alive in a dream.

She towered over Castiel now, a pillar of darkness with blazing white eyes. 

Her voice rumbled and echoed as she said, “You are a pitiful creature with no purpose. No more than a dog lying at the foot of his bed.” 

In front of him, Amara’s shade expanded and engulfed the room, and he slid further into darkness. His body was almost invisible to him now when he looked down. His mind was light as a feather. 

“ **_CAS!_ ** ”

“You are insignificant,” Amara thundered.

His greater being drifted, like a liquid turning into gas, isolating into separate particles rather than a coherent structure.

"Castiel! Cas! Cas! Damn it, Cas! Cas!" 

He heard someone shouting his name from a great distance. He sluggishly tried to raise his gaze from his hands to see who was there. 

A hand reached out for his, almost passed through, but met resistance - an exchange of bosons delivering electromagnetic forces between the cells of two hands. His hand was real, touchable, because it was being touched.

“Castiel!” 

He knew and could name every atom in the being touching him.

His voice, his true voice, spoke Dean's true name into the air.

“Cas. Yes, you’re real. You’re right here.”

He was falling through the dark. The darkness was the great span of his wings, domed like the pitch black tent of night, as he fell. As they fell.

“Fight this,” Dean commanded, his voice right next to Castiel’s ear in the darkness.

There was another hand on his shoulder now, steadying him. Sam.

Hands gripped his face, Dean’s hands, as he growled, “You are mine. Fight this.” 

What was the lesson? He looked into Dean's green eyes, clear as the rising sun. You are mine. It rang in his head like a bell. Of course he was, and that was his mortal flaw. 

Voice laced with anger and frustration, Dean insisted, “This isn’t real. She isn’t real!”

Lies. 

Castiel flapped his wings and flung himself back at the speed of sound, crackling through the air with a boom. Dean and Sam’s hands fell away.

It is real. 

It is real. 

It is real. 

He was no one. No one's. 

Sinking slowly, as if in quicksand, he repeated the words like a mantra in his head.

Something grabbed him in a vice. He jerked, attempting to flee the tempting lies again, but he couldn’t move in the grip. It pinned his entire body, pressing even his wings down.

Then he heard the great and powerful voice of his brother, commanding, “ **SEE** .”

He materialized, ghost-like, in Gabriel’s imaginary classroom again, gazing on the three of them trapped in student desks while Gabriel paced frenetically in front of the chalkboard. 

Dean’s voice grated, “Get. to. the. point.”

Gabriel turned, just as he had once before, but his dark eyes looked directly at Castiel, the ghost at the back of the classroom, as he said, “There is a darkness in the host. I knew something was wrong before I came here, but I thought maybe I was the only one affected.”

“Why would you have thought you might be the only one?” Sam asked.

“Well, I didn’t know all of the details about Amara until I spoke to Cas. After, I thought it might just be a blip for other angels. The greater the light, the more the darkness will impact a creature.”

He had already thought these thoughts. Standing right there in the imaginary classroom, he’d considered how Amara could be impacting him and he’d identified the feeling of jealousy. 

What was the lesson? 

Dean squeezed out of the desk and his butt hit the floor.

Castiel spiraled back into the dark, spluttering and coughing like he was emerging from deep water. Gabriel’s presence had disappeared, but Dean had returned.

He was right in front of Castiel. Both of them were still in the dark and he could not see him, but he was there.

“Cas.”

Dean grabbed his hand, pulling it over until it rested against his chest. 

“Here. Come here.”

Tugging on his hand, Dean pulled Castiel into him and they tumbled into the light.

Castiel squinted at the bright sunlight, glaring around them, and recognized the garden. They were in the garden where Chuck and Amara had reunited, when Dean had taken  on the soul bomb. 

Dean’s hand still gripped his wrist, loosely between them. The scene that was playing out before him was not something he’d experienced before. Amara and Chuck were still there. 

Chuck stood toward the center of the garden waiting, while Amara approached the other Dean and took him aside for a private moment. 

Her expression was grateful and adoring. Castiel could not see Dean’s face, only his profile.

“Dean, you gave me what I needed most. I wanted to do the same for you,” she said. 

Then she described how she tortured and destroyed Lucifer. Castiel was intimately familiar with those details, and while she described them in a way that clearly made the other Dean uncomfortable from the tension in his shoulders, she was sugar-coating it.

Finally, her voice gentled, “But then I discovered Castiel. I knew what he was immediately because I had seen him in you - imprinted on you. His soul was marked by your love - as visible and potent as the Mark of Cain.” 

She pressed a single hand to Dean’s cheek, “I took great care to preserve Castiel when I burned out Lucifer. I felt your love for him so powerfully it was as if it was my own. I could not harm him anymore than you could harm me.”

Shock shot up through his spine. Dean was here, showing him a memory, but it conflicted with his own memories entirely. 

Where was the lie? 

Both of them had experienced a completely different Amara. Was it all just a part of her torture - the lies? And which of them was she being truthful to?

Castiel watched Dean’s response closely.

From Castiel’s vantage point, he could see Dean’s mouth open twice, then shut again, before he finally said, “Thank you.”

His voice broke over the syllables.

She placed a hand on Dean’s chest, right on his chestbone.

The moments converged: Dean and Castiel in the garden. Dean and Castiel plummeting through a dark hole of space. 

Castiel seized Dean by the waist and flung out his wings. They slammed down against gravity with a sudden jerk. Glass shattered in the green house and the bright, warm light of the sun poured over them.

Dean’s hands stayed on him, gripping both of his arms. They were in the garden alone and he could see all of Dean.

Tangible, corporeal, right there, Dean said, “I didn’t know, Cas. I’m sorry.”

Castiel didn’t know what Dean was apologizing for. He felt like he’d put out his arms and spun around again and again, and the world was still spinning. 

“I still don’t entirely understand,” Castiel shook his head as if that alone could make things clear. “But I can see now that she did not reveal the truth to me as I had thought.”

What he knew for certain was what Dean had said.

You are mine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Genesis 30:3 by The Mountain Goats. This song to me is the ultimate Dean/Cas hymn.
> 
> This fic has a playlist! If you enjoy music, here are the songs that helped inspire and guide this fanfic: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7jNfMfZcNsuruH6mhpklZW?si=Tn5PrRwuRVWNy08duw-DCA.


	18. A Bottom to The Top of The Moment

The atmosphere in the garden changed. The bright glare of the sun dimmed, as if a cloud was passing over, and Dean released his grip on Castiel’s arms. 

Castiel fought the urge to grab Dean and pull him back, but Dean suddenly seemed far away, as if he didn’t see Castiel anymore.

“Dean?”

Dean didn’t respond. Instead, he turned as if he saw something in the distance and stalked out of the door of the garden with purpose. Alarmed, Castiel jolted into action, following after him.

The moment he stumbled out of the door to the garden, Sam grabbed him and wrapped him in a tight embrace. 

“Sam,” Castiel exhaled in surprise.

“Dude, that was intense,” Sam squeezed him tighter once, then released him. He nodded his head toward Dean, who was beating a fast retreat toward nothing. “I think this is Dean’s trial now.”

With realization, Castiel tilted his head at Sam, “You were there - in mine?” He remembered the feeling of Sam’s hand on his shoulder.

In one accord, both of them started walking again, quickening their pace to keep up with Dean. Neither of them wanted to lose him.

“Yeah, we both were,” Sam answered. Castiel had to put on an extra burst of speed to keep with Sam’s long gait.

Castiel shivered as it settled over him that Dean and Sam had been there for his entire trial. They would remember it all. 

He was not self-conscious that Dean had experienced his emotions, his memories. The entire experience was something he should have already told Dean about and had tried to at least twice. But he was worried that the experience would change how Dean felt about Amara, if he did indeed love her.

He dwelled on Dean’s words and on the palpable sense of truth and love he’d felt from Dean in the garden as Amara had revealed that she’d spared Castiel specifically for Dean. Hope trickled through him again. 

He might have a place, a purpose.

As they raced to catch up, someone joined Dean and began walking with him. Castiel recognized the other figure with surprise. Zachariah?

“Actually, we all were, but Dean and I didn’t realize Gabe was there too until later.” Castiel struggled to stay focused on Sam’s words as they ran to catch up with Dean and Zachariah. He recalled an immense presence plucking him from the darkness.

“He almost obliterated us,” Sam finished with a visible shudder.

That caught his attention.

“Oh,” Castiel turned toward Sam, but they didn’t slow their pace. “He must have been in his true form.”

Castiel recalled it now with more clarity as they gained more distance from his trial. Gabriel’s presence had been nothing like the neatly contained vessel they all witnessed daily. More like an enormous hand entering from the sky and plucking them all out of one reality and flinging them into another. 

The bucolic landscape surrounding the garden gave way to, surprisingly, Bobby’s cabin among a paramilitary encampment. People marched around with purpose in military fatigues and assault rifles. A perimeter of razor wire now enclosed them.

They caught up with Dean and Zachariah just in time to hear the angel say, “Your choices have consequences. This is what happens to the world if you continue to say no to Michael.”

As Dean walked into Bobby’s empty cabin, Sam lingered in the doorway and explained to Castiel, “This is something Dean actually experienced, although I’m not sure if it happened just like this. Zachariah tried to convince him to say yes to Michael by showing him what the future could look like if I said yes to Lucifer, but he didn’t say yes to Michael.”

Sam ducked out of the doorway as Dean stalked back out of the cabin and passed by them, unseeing. He ran directly into Chuck - the old Chuck.

“Oh look, it’s actually Chuck,” Sam commented with good humor, “I miss him.”

Castiel nodded, “Yes. He was amusing.” 

His ears perked up as Dean asked for Castiel, and Chuck led him beyond a beaded curtain.

Sam entered first and burst out laughing. Castiel stepped in quickly and saw a strange reflection of himself, sitting cross-legged on the floor with stubble and tired eyes at the center of a group of women. The room smelled like body odor and marijuana.

“The one real thing Dean shared from all this was that we needed to stop the apocalypse if for no other reason than to prevent you from turning into a damn dirty hippy who takes advantage of women in a weirdo end of days cult,” Sam explained as he waved his hand around. 

Wrinkling his nose, Castiel listened to the fake Castiel instruct, “Now, go get washed up for the orgy.”

“This is absurd. Even if I became a human, I would never start a sex cult. He didn’t really believe this was possible?” Castiel asked, gazing at Dean’s expression to try to understand. 

“I think he did. I think he does,” Sam replied as they followed the other Castiel and Dean out of the strange meditation room. “I mean, Zachariah made up this specific flavor of crazy, but I think Dean legitimately feels like everything would fall apart if he wasn’t always holding it together.”

Fake Castiel and Dean climbed into a truck as night fell. Time was strange in this place, and Castiel got the feeling that the trial differed somewhat from Dean’s past experience. 

Sam and Castiel climbed in the back seats of the truck. 

It was strange to see himself in the driver’s seat and Dean riding in the passenger seat, even if this version of him was patently untrue. Fake Castiel popped the top on a prescription bottle of amphetamines.

“I’m practically human. I mean, Dean, I’m all but useless. Last year, I broke my foot. Laid up for two months,” Fake Castiel explained.

“Wow, so you’re human,” Dean replied as if unimpressed. “Well, welcome to the club.”

“Thanks, except I used to belong to a much better club,” Fake Castiel replied bitterly. “Now I’m powerless. I’m hapless, I’m hopeless. I mean, why the hell not bury myself in women and decadence.”

The trueness of Fake Castiel’s words did hit home. Angel or human, Castiel did want a sense of purpose and meaning. Clearly, Dean did know him well enough to understand that Castiel was a seeker who would feel listless and lost if he felt insignificant in the bigger picture. 

But so many things were wrong. 

“I do not view the angels as a better club,” Castiel pointed out to Sam. “Humanity is a gift.”

Sam glanced at Castiel, chewing on his lip. 

“Yeah, I don’t think Zachariah was showing him the future. And the trial isn’t either,” Sam replied. “This is just a shitty Dean day-dream where everyone falls apart if he stops doing everything for everybody.”

Castiel gritted his teeth in irritation. “He thinks this is what I would become if he did not do things for me?”

Sam waved a hand placatingly, “No, I don’t think he really thinks about this specific reality. But I think he believes that if you lost your mojo and your sense of purpose, you’d just kind of go off the deep end. So he takes it as his responsibility to make sure that doesn’t happen. It’s his typical self-sacrificing bullshit.”

As much as this version of Castiel bothered him, he was not far enough away from his own trial to deny Dean’s fears outright. He had literally disappeared as his fears of having no place, having no significance, had overcome him. 

Sensing his disquiet, Sam nudged him with an elbow, “Dude, it’s a fantasy that reflects his fears. Just like your trial was.”

“My trial was - ” Castiel began to correct Sam, but it was at that moment that Fake Castiel pulled over the truck and Dean stepped out of the car. 

They rushed after Dean and Fake Castiel, trailing behind as they approached a tall figure in an all white suit. Lightning touched down somewhere nearby, followed by a deafening clap of thunder. 

“Oh. Hello, Dean,” the figure turned. There was a collective intake of breath from everyone but Fake Castiel as they recognized Sam, but not Sam. 

“That fucker dressed me up like a damn pimp,” Sam grumbled. Castiel was uncertain if the ‘fucker’ in question was Dean or Lucifer. 

Lightning struck again and Fake Castiel fell flat on the ground, lifeless. Dean dropped to one knee in an instant, devastating grief in his expression, even if this version of Castiel was a bit fallen and dirty. When he met Lucifer’s eyes again, wearing Sam’s body, his eyes were glassy with tears. 

“Aren’t you a surprise? You’ve come a long way to see this haven’t you?”

Beside him, Sam grumbled, “Oh sure. In Dean’s dreams, if he doesn’t sacrifice everything for us, we turn into assholes and I kill everyone.” 

Castiel could see in Sam’s eyes that the scene was impacting him too. He put a reassuring hand on Sam’s shoulder.

“Dean. Dean. Dean,” Lucifer-Sam sing-songed with a smile. “It’s time to let go of little Sammy. He’s all grown up, John is gone, and no one needs you to play dad anymore. Sam chose me and you’re not needed in this narrative.”

“I fucking did everything for you. Everything I have ever done was for you, and you couldn’t hold out while I figured this out,” Dean spat back, climbing back to his feet. 

“There was only one thing you could have done, and you were too selfish to do it,” Lucifer sneered in return. “And now, everyone you care about is gone.”

“Well then go ahead. Kill me,” Dean growled in return.

Lucifer pulled the colt out from beneath his jacket as he replied, “Don’t mind if I do.”

“Shit!” Sam exclaimed in a gasp, while Castiel flared out his grace. Like a dense fog, Dean’s self-loathing hit both of them in a wave, his feelings of failure.

In a rush of fury and fear, Sam jumped directly in front of the path of the gun, facing Dean directly. He grabbed him by the shoulders and shouted, “I NEED YOU TO WAKE THE FUCK UP!”

The crack of the gun firing echoed through the trees. Castiel watched the bullet leave the gun and fly through the air, travelling straight through Sam as if he was invisible. Dean glanced around as if he heard something. 

Castiel focused all of his will into manifestation, corporeality, and he stepped forward to wrap his fingers around the bullet. To his surprise, he yanked it out of midair centimeters before it hit Dean’s abdomen. 

Encouraged, Sam attempted to grab Dean’s shoulders again, and said forcefully, “I am right here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Castiel let the bullet roll out of his hand and gazed Dean. He seemed to be listening, but still looked lost, dissociative. 

“Dean. Zachariah is a fuckstick. So is Lucifer. This is not real,” Castiel said, trying to get through with profanity. Dean was always amused when he cursed.

Sam’s lips quirked, “Yeah. He’s a real bag of dicks, and he is fucking with you.”

The world around them dissipated somewhat, becoming foggy and unclear. Behind them, Lucifer began to fade as he reloaded the colt. 

Dean’s emotions clogged the air around them with thick rage. His feelings were so clear, they were almost verbal. 

_ His family needed him. They were a couple of fucking idiots stumbling around in the dark. They couldn’t tie their damn shoes in the morning if it wasn’t for him. _

“If that’s what gets you up in the morning,” Sam snorted, picking the thoughts out of the air. “It is not your responsibility to keep me from disappointing you or failing. That is on me.”

Dean visibly flinched, rejection streaking through his emotions in the air. But Lucifer faded further behind them, even as he raised the colt again to point at Dean. To point at them.

“Dean,” Castiel enunciated each word seriously, “Sam and I don’t need you, we  _ love  _ you.”

Dean’s eyes focused finally and connected with Castiel and then Sam. He could see them. Both Sam and Castiel reached out and put a hand on Dean’s shoulders. Once they touched him, the apocalyptic hellscape completely disappeared, and they were standing in the Great Room of the bunker again, nearby the hearth. 

They stayed utterly still for several seconds, just breathing, with Dean’s eyes locked on Castiel’s, before awareness started to spread across Dean’s expression. Sam let his hand fall away. 

Similar to when Dean first woke up each morning, Castiel watched embarrassment flicker across his features before they shuddered over in Dean’s usual mask.

He could sympathize with the feeling of overexposure. The edges of his mind felt raw and open. They both had a lot to process and discuss. Dean’s mouth opened briefly, then shut, as if he had no idea where to start.

“This is weird. Why are we back in the bunker?” Sam interrupted. 

Castiel looked around. The yule log was still out and the candles throughout the room unlit, just as it had been when they dipped into Castiel’s trial. The atmosphere was cold and eerily quiet. 

Castiel dropped his hand from Dean’s shoulder too. Sam took a few steps toward the center of the room, looking around. 

All three of them jumped when they heard Gabriel’s voice.

“Welcome back, boys.”

Gabriel, in his human form this time, threw his arms around Dean and Castiel’s shoulders, grinning at Sam. As he touched him, Castiel knew something was wrong instantly. 

“You know, I never expected this to be so easy. You are all just so trusting,” he continued jauntily. Dean jerked away from his grasp, even as Gabriel’s angel blade slid down into the other hand and straight into Castiel’s back.

Stunned, Castiel looked down, but even as light poured out of him, he knew it was wrong. He side-stepped, and separated from himself, one Castiel collapsing onto the floor bleeding light. Dean gaped at him, while Sam stared down at the fallen Castiel and screamed, “NO!”

Dean took two long steps over to him, stepping over the dying angel on the floor, and grabbed Castiel’s arms to reassure himself. 

“We’re in Sam’s trial,” he realized aloud, and Castiel nodded. 

Another Dean collapsed by Castiel’s grace-less body and glared out at Gabriel, angel blade in his hand. 

“You goddamn two-faced asshole,” Fake Dean spat, tears in his eyes. 

“What can I say? You all let me stay,” Gabriel shrugged. “Sammy - you are my magnum opus, though. I could have just killed you all outright on day one, but isn’t it always better to have a little fun with your prey first?”

“What the hell is he talking about?” Fake Dean asked, clambering to his feet in a defensive stance.

Sam stood stock still, like his world was crashing in on him. He hadn’t looked away from Castiel’s body on the floor.

“You really are slow, aren’t you? Your bro has a thing for me,” Gabriel leered, his gaze moving between Dean and Sam. “He really is too predictable - always letting the wrong one in.”

Dean, the real one, glanced at Castiel with shock on his face. “Wait, what? Sam and Gabe?”

“I wasn’t completely sure, but I could see they were growing closer,” Castiel responded with markedly less surprise.

“Oh, well damn,” Dean frowned. “I guess I’ve been too caught up in our shit the last couple of weeks.”

Castiel repeated the words in his head with amusement and sadness - our shit.

“Dean, I - ” Sam stuttered.

“Can it, Sammy,” Fake Dean grumbled. “Color me unsurprised that you would develop a thing for someone who would come in and rip apart our lives. But we can talk about your shit taste in people later.” He threw himself straight at Gabriel, but the archangel deflected his blow and it glanced across his shoulder, tearing just a tiny papercut of light into his arm.

“Goodnight, Dean,” Gabriel quipped as he touched two fingers to Fake Dean’s forehead and he fell flat on his face.

“Nothing like seeing your own ass get spanked,” Dean gulped at his dead body, unsettled. 

Just like in Dean’s trial, Sam’s emotions permeated the entire room as he watched Gabriel kill Fake Dean. He was full of self-recrimination and paralyzed by self-doubt. 

Castiel knew that Sam did not trust himself, especially not when it came to romantic entanglements. He felt that his own judgement was suspect after having been fooled more than once. Similar to Dean, though, he had never thought to ask Sam about his insecurities as he became closer to Gabriel. He had been too caught up in his own troubles.

Gabriel started to walk toward Sam, and Dean and Castiel both realized at the same moment that he had no intention to fight back. 

He felt that he deserved whatever was coming. 

Taking flight, Castiel beat both Gabriel and Dean to Sam’s side. Sam’s eyes immediately flicked to his, and Castiel felt a moment of elation at breaking through the veil of the dream. But Sam’s emotions in the air told him that Sam believed he was a ghost. 

“Gabriel is not like the others - you were not mistaken to put your trust in him,” Castiel tried as Gabriel stalked closer.

Sam just shook his head, beyond speech in his grief. The edges of the room around them became dark and a little fuzzy, like the picture on an old tv, as if Sam’s mood was pulling the whole room under. 

Determined, Castiel pushed Sam back a pace as Gabriel reached them. He clasped Sam’s forearm and extended his grace. 

“Let me show you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Terrified by Childish Gambino. 
> 
> I want to note here that Childish Gambino's album Awaken, My Love is about the experience of being black in America. Given that this fic is not about that, nor does it feature any characters of color (except Bethel, who I envision being in a black vessel,) I felt like it was important to acknowledge that I wanted to include voices from black folks and other POC in my playlist, but that appreciating these works of art requires a special nod to their cultural context. Listening to Terrified and other songs like it should open us up to the experience of black folks in America and make us all work harder for equity and liberation. With that in mind, I made a donation to the Loveland Foundation. Here's a link if you'd like to as well! https://thelovelandfoundation.org/


	19. Last Night I Had the Sweetest Dream

Castiel blinked him into a room with tile floors and a collection of dead plants. A dim, but piercing light illuminated the room. Sam glanced up and realized it was the moon, shining in through the glass ceiling above them.

The Green Room. This was the Green Room.

In front of him, a different Castiel and Gabriel engaged in a debate. He recoiled, but Castiel held his arm tight. Neither of the two angels before them seemed to realize that they were being watched. 

“- doesn’t seem super happy about it,” Sam started to pick up on Gabriel’s words mid-sentence. “He’s been stomping around here for days like someone killed his dog or something."

“Dean can be moody,” Castiel shrugged. “He’s displayed very little emotion to me, and he’s been disinterested with talking further.”

Gabriel gaped at the other Castiel like he was an idiot. “I remember what it was like to be so fucking stupid. So I'll forgive you that. But you should look inside him. You might be surprised about what you find.”

“That would be an invasion” Castiel shuddered, looking aghast.

“Fine. Don’t say I never tried,” Gabriel waved a hand in surrender.

“I didn’t come here to discuss my relationship with Dean,” Castiel growled. His voice was laced with suspicion as he continued, “Sam and Dean have both been attacked now. You will tell me why you are here.”

Sam felt Castiel’s suspicion down to his bones. Cas had never been so openly skeptical and angry about Gabriel in front of them. It surprised him. 

“You’ve already seen my intentions. What else do you want?” Gabriel hedged. 

“I’m done with games, Gabriel. You almost lost control earlier.”

Sam tried to place the memory in time, wondering if Castiel was referring to the time Gabriel had gone nuclear after hearing about Israfil and the destruction in heaven. Cas did look uncharacteristically ragged, leaning against the fountain with dark circles under his eyes.

“Also, you need to stop baiting Dean or I will fuck your shit up,” Castiel threated.

Gabriel threw up his head and full body laughed. Castiel glared, still dead serious, but it seemed to only make Gabriel laugh harder.

“No, Cas, I’m sorry,” Gabriel finally choked out as he got himself under control. “I fully believe you would throw down. And you would be a formidable enemy.”

Gabriel took a pause, considering, then he appeared to come to some decision.

“Listen, I want to gain your trust. I don’t think there’s any way to get Sam and Dean’s without literally dragging myself naked over hot coals while self-flagellating, but you, I think I can manage.”

Holding out a hand toward Castiel, he said, “So let’s go.”

Castiel stared at him and his outstretched hand for a couple of beats, as if considering his offer. To Sam’s surprise, Castiel, the other Castiel, turned his head and looked straight at him. 

Beside him, one Cas pushed him forward and he took the other Cas’s outstretched hand. Then, Cas returned his gaze to Gabriel and touched his hand to the archangel’s, and then they were flying.

Sam’s body was turning inside out. 

He warped space as he travelled at the speed of light.

He clung like a tiny barnacle to Castiel as he touched down.

Hand in Cas’, he staggered into another galaxy. A vast and untouched expanse. Knowledge buffeted against him and flowed through him like radiation. 

Cas spoke low near to his ear, “We are within Gabriel’s being. He will show you the truth.”

Gabriel contained a history of the universe that physicists and great writers would tremble over. It passed over and through Sam like a solar flare, but he could not contain it. The archangel’s being was powerful beyond imagination, a supernova honed and consciously controlled. 

Distantly, Sam understood that his body was not here, only his mind, contained within Castiel’s memories almost like a vessel. This was not a place humans could go. 

This was how Castiel experienced an archangel. It was immense and unknowable, even for a Seraph. Still, Cas seemed to have more sense about him confronted with this open world. He was steering through the waves of knowledge with a sense of direction. 

Sam wondered what it was like to see Castiel from the inside too. 

Gabriel pushed knowledge and memories at them, parting the maelstrom of all of his being, and funneling only what mattered toward them. Together with Castiel, he didn’t experience the information visually or audibly. It was just suddenly in his brain, as if it was always there. 

He began to feel crowded out of his own brain. The thoughts and memories were too immense. 

It was too much.

A seizure ripped through him. It felt like his brain was turning to mush and dripping out his ears.

Alarm rose up through him, and he realized it was Cas’ emotions. Cas grabbed hold of Sam with invisible fingers, and suddenly they were standing together in the Great Room again.

Sam dropped to his knees, vomiting all over the floor. 

“Sam!” Cas shouted with concern. He dropped down beside him and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, extending his grace at the same time and probing for places to assess and heal. Sam took great gulping breaths of air, starting to calm as he realized his brain was his own again and there was no foreign presence there. 

“Cas,” Sam wheezed. “I still don’t understand.”

Cas slumped in defeat. He gripped Sam’s shoulder a little tighter, saying, “I thought -”

The rest of his words faded away as Castiel disappeared. Sam slowly regained his breath and his wits, eventually lifting his gaze to the room around him. There was only Dean’s lifeless body and Castiel’s empty vessel before him. 

Sam knew that this could be his trial. But it was also so real.

Castiel and Dean’s trials both ended when they recognized that there was something they were telling themselves that was a lie. Some fear or insecurity they had to expose to the light.

He had thought after experiencing both of their trials, his would be easier because he was the most prepared.

Why were they in the bunker?

What was Castiel trying to show him? Was it some kind of echo - an apology Castiel had for him after death? Was he trying to show Sam how to defeat Gabriel?

“Sammy,” Gabriel’s voice interrupted his reverie and his head jerked up. “What have you learned?”

Sam stared at Gabriel. He stood just a few feet away, mirth still in his eyes. He wondered if Gabriel knew that Sam had been travelling through his true form.

Reading him like a book, Gabriel continued dismissively, “Nothing, clearly. And even if you had, you wouldn’t be able to trust yourself to understand it. You’ve given up. Hell, you want it. You want me to end it.”

He appeared beside Sam, lips brushing right against his ear, “You want me to put an end to this long string of fuck ups.”

“Sammy! Sammy!” Gabriel said his name again. Sam shook his head furiously to clear it. No, it was Dean’s voice, not Gabriel’s.

Was he imagining Dean’s voice here at the end? He was afraid to hear the disappointment. He tried to shut it out, but he still felt a hand on his back, and Dean said urgently, “Sammy, you are the smartest damn kid I’ve ever known. You can figure this out.”

Gabriel reached out to run a hand along Sam’s jaw. He leaned in close enough to kiss Sam, close enough that Sam could feel his breath on his lips, mocking him. 

“I don’t think I’m going to end it for you at all. I’m going to leave you here, trying to work up the courage to end it yourself.”

Then Gabriel disappeared. 

The bunker was as still and quiet as a sarcophagus. The crooked tree in the corner, the strap of bells on the door handle, the sprig of mistletoe hanging over the door, all pointless. None of it had done any good. Another one of Gabriel’s games.

“Sammy, you have to wake up.”

Death sat beside Sam, whispering in his ear in Dean’s voice. 

“No,” Dean growled, “I am not death. I am your fucking brother, and I’m here to tell you I trust you. You are the most trustworthy, loyal and smartest person I have ever known.”

His thoughts were calm, almost lazy, resigned. 

He thought about Ruby. How he’d fallen for her and convinced himself it was the only way.

He thought about when Dean died, and he did not search for him. 

He thought about when he came back from the pit without a soul and fought against Dean to stay that way. 

He thought about why Lucifer picked him. What did that say about him? 

He thought about his mother dying. All because of him. 

Dean and Castiel’s empty husks still sprawled by the hearth.

All because of him. 

He could not be trusted. And now he was alone.

Dean’s hands encircled either side of his face, his heart in his throat as he failed. His brother’s body, here in his arms, was fading into shadow. 

Distantly, Dean heard himself screaming. He had shaken Sam over and over. There were tears on his cheeks. He was failing.

Dean felt pressure against his arms, lifting him, trying to pry him away. He thrashed and fought to stay with his brother. The whole room shook like a crevasse was about to open up below them and swallow them whole.

“I won’t let go!” He shouted. “Sammy, you hear that? I will NOT let you go!”

There was a shrill ring in response that rattled painfully against his eardrums as it rose in volume. 

Quiet and near, Castiel’s voice startled him, “Dean, it’s OK. It’s Gabriel. Let go.”

Dean had forgotten Cas was there. The room had narrowed to just him and Sam’s disappearing form. 

The shriek in the air was so loud now, Dean thought his head was going to shatter like a glass. 

With more urgency, Cas repeated, “Dean,  _ you have to let go _ .”

Suspicion and defensiveness welled up in him. Would Gabriel actually help him? Was this some kind of trick? He remembered how Gabriel intervened and pulled Cas from the darkness, bringing him within Dean’s reach again. But he still found it difficult to trust.

His eyes slid over Sam’s dark, fading form and he realized he had no choice. He couldn’t reach Sam. He’d had no idea how dark the doubts in Sam’s head had become. He was able to reach Cas. And Sam and Cas reached him. Had Sam not known how essential he was to Dean? Had he not loved him enough? 

The ground rumbled again and pressure pushed up against his arms again, and this time Dean let go. As he did, a loud crash of thunder rattled through the air.

Just like before, Gabriel was not enclosed in a vessel. His presence was more like an enormous abyssal hand, scooping up Sam and holding him in the air. Sam hung limp, eyes open and lifeless. Light exploded in front of him and Dean was forced to screw his eyes shut. 

Hands underneath his shoulders pulled him up and away to his feet, then Castiel gathered Dean in his arms, wrapping his arms tight around Dean’s abdomen. Darkness descended beyond the thin barrier of his eyelids, and he cautiously opened his eyes. Castiel had domed his wings around them, shielding them from Gabriel’s raw power. 

Around them, Cas’ wings shuddered in waves like blackout curtains. There was strain in his arms as if he was muscling through white water.

In Dean’s ear, he gritted out in a low tone, “He is putting the pieces together. I didn’t realize it would enter him so scattered.”

It was like Castiel was speaking a foreign language. He couldn’t tell if the problem was with what Cas was saying or his ability to put actual thought together.

Then, just like that, the power and the pressure in the room dissipated. Gabriel was gone.

The curtain of Cas’ wings parted just in time for Dean to see Sam drop, still lifeless, but with a discordant thud on the floor. Shadows don’t thud. Dean ripped out of Cas’ arms and staggered to his brother’s side.

“Sam!” He called, pressing a hand up underneath Sam’s jaw to paw at his ice cold skin for a pulse. Sam’s eyes were open, still dull, but moving, as if he was in a dream. Dean shook him, “Sammy, wake up.”

Sam’s eyes focused slowly. He lifted a hand and weakly gripped Dean’s arm, trying to stop the shaking. As he blinked his way back to reality, the room lit up with light and heat. In his direct line of sight, Dean saw the tree flash as the candles ignited all at once. His ears heard the crackling of the yule log. 

“Hey,” Sam said, weakly, having to pause to clear his throat, “Dean. I’m OK.”

Dean released Sam slowly and leaned back on his heels. He sucked up snot into his nose and turned away to scrub at the salt on his cheeks, embarrassed.

After composing himself, Dean craned up to stand and took a step away as Sam continued to regain his bearings. Behind him, Cas took a step closer, but wisely didn’t touch him, giving Dean space to work through his shame.

Searching, Sam’s gaze moved over the room until they fell on Gabriel, who sat exactly where they’d left him, at a chair in front of the fireplace. His mercurial smile lived more in his eyes than on his mouth. 

“Congrats. You are all shockingly more capable at defeating your internal demons than I expected,” Gabriel joked, but gently and with an undertone of gratitude. 

Sam leaned heavily on the palms of his hands as he pushed unsteadily to his feet. Once he was standing, he asked hoarsely, “Is it over?”

“No,” Gabe replied in an apologetic tone. “Now it’s time for my trial.”

All three of them were spent, but they’d been through worse. Even now, Dean felt adrenaline spike through him, preparing him for the final fight.

“Ok,” Sam steeled himself, eyes flicking to Dean before returning to Gabe’s. “Let’s do this.” 

Gabriel smiled at Sam fully this time, with more sincerity and appreciation than Dean thought he was capable of. He spoke directly to Sam when he said, “You can’t go with me like you did for Cas and Dean. The trial will take place within me, and that is not a place you can go… again.” 

He added the last note with a grin at Cas. Then his gaze twitched to the clock. Dean followed his gaze, noting that the clock was seconds from midnight. Several hours had passed.

“We’ll be here when you’re done,” Sam nodded.

“It’s a date,” Gabriel winked. Then his expression closed off again as he warned, “Shield your eyes.”

As Dean screwed his eyes shut, Gabe’s vessel collapsed back into the chair and a familiar shrill ring filled the air. When he opened his eyes again, the vessel sat empty in the chair, eyes open and vacant.

  
  
  
  


Given the events of the day, looking at Gabe’s limp and empty body sent a shiver down Sam’s spine and he had to look away. Much like a dream, the emotions of betrayal and devastation from his trial still lingered, although they were becoming more distant. Having the archangel’s truth and memories literally shoved into his brain helped with that much. But watching your brother and your best friend get murdered right in front of you was a difficult thing to forget.

Dean broke the silence first, commenting sarcastically, “Well that was a real kick to the nards.” 

Sam laughed, maybe a bit slap-happy, but Castiel did not. 

With the stillness broken, Cas strode over to Sam saying, “Sam, are you OK? I should have known what seeing Gabriel’s grace would do to you.”

He approached as though he wanted to run his grace over him again and make sure he was whole. Sam waved him off before Cas could reach his side, and he inhaled a deep breath.

“It felt like…” he trailed off, searching for the words, “like I was game of fifty-two card pick-up? Except maybe someone threw in some extra decks and maybe even an uno deck too for good measure.”

That startled a laugh out of Dean, who was slowly regaining his dignified distance. His eyes were still red around the edges. 

“But, Cas, I’m OK,” Sam continued as Cas looked on stricken. “I know why you did it. I’m  _ glad  _ that you did it. I wouldn’t have beaten the trial otherwise.”

“You’re being too generous,” Cas shrugged off the comment.

“No. I’m not,” Sam insisted. “It’s funny because I went into it kind of cocky. I felt better prepared after your trials, and I couldn’t imagine anything that could hit me that hard.” He shrugged deprecatingly, “I was wrong.”

Emotion still in his voice, now covered over with a typical blanket of forceful anger, Dean cut in, “Sam. Did you not learn anything from that trial? We ALL needed help to beat the trial. If you needed more help than us, it’s because your shit started well before you were born. And most of it isn’t you, it was done TO you.”

Sam winced, “You’re right. I… I’m gonna have to sit with that for a bit.”

He knew they needed a change of subject. Cas could probably calmly plunge the depths of each trial and relive each moment right here and now, but he could tell Dean was about to blow his head off. Sam needed a little distance too.

Sam smiled as he switched gears, “Ok, but you two - you know you’re idiots, right?”

Dean and Castiel exchanged a quick embarrassed glance, then looked back at Sam.

“So I give you a fucking pep-talk, and you call us idiots about our shit?” Dean grumbled.

Sam laughed, holding up one hand, “No! I didn’t mean it that way. I just meant, you know, can you two like kiss and make up? Because I’m tired of living in a broken home and all.”

While there was a lot more to Dean and Cas’ trials that he could talk about, the one thing that had been abundantly clear to Sam was that they both were in love with each other. From the outside, that was a challenging thing to tell. He always knew that it was more than just a multi-year hook-up or friends with benefits scenario, obviously. But the trials had laid them all bare. 

Dean glared at Sam, “You -” he thrust a single accusing finger in the air at Sam, “- you just wait. If ole Holly Claus comes back, I’m gonna make your life hell the next time I catch you two assholes making doe eyes at each other.”

Stunned back into silence, Sam pinked and turned away, looking back into the fire. He’d almost forgotten that now everyone knew something was going on between him and Gabe. Hell, it was embarrassing to know that even Gabe knew it out and out now, and he had been involved in it the whole time.

Both Sam and Dean startled when Cas burst out into peals of laughter. Holding his stomach, hunched over, can’t breathe, kind of laughter.

Together, they stared at him with wide-eyes as he struggled to get it under control. When he saw them, it only made him laugh harder.

“I think he’s in shock,” Sam said, but a smile stretched over his face. He glanced at Dean, who had a fucking dopey look if Sam had ever seen one, unable to stop watching Cas laugh. Sam rolled his eyes. It was insufferable. 

Eventually, Cas got it back under control, and the graveness of the night hit them again. They made sure they had recollected weapons and their senses in case Gabriel returned to his body, unvictorious. Or in case of other, unexpected disturbances. 

After, they settled into a comfortable hunter’s watching and waiting.

Dean whittled pieces off a chunk of wood with his angel blade. God likely never intended for an angel blade to be used as a can opener, a screwdriver, a box cutter, but Dean treated it mostly like a pocket knife, pointing out that it was handy because it never got dull. Cas had long since stopped casting irritated eyes at Dean when he inappropriately used the angel blade, knowing that Dean would just say something snarky back and keep doing what he was doing. 

Cas settled into staring off into the fire, the only one of them that dared go anywhere near the specter of Gabe’s empty vessel. His silence was not distant or still. The air around him was active, as if he was swiftly unwinding the mysteries of the universe in his mind. Sam knew that Cas was itching to unpack the trials, and even on a good day, that would be a challenge to do with Dean. 

But right now, especially, Dean was reassembling each gruff and smirking chink in his armor, and he was projecting emotional defensiveness in waves.

Sam paced for a while, then finally grabbed a book in a futile exercise. He paced some more, then dropped into a chair and flipped open the book to a random page. His eyes glazed over the same paragraph over and over, unseeing. 

His mind was a jumble of half formed emotions and thoughts. What would happen if Gabriel couldn’t fight off the darkness? Would his trial come true? As much as Sam didn’t want to admit it, he wasn’t just concerned for Dean and Cas and himself and everyone else, he was also concerned for Gabe. 

Having met three other archangels, it was difficult to see them as anything other than a force of nature. Empathy wasn’t something you could feel for them. If a river started flowing in the wrong direction, would you feel concern for how it felt about that? No, you’d just worry about the impact it would have on the people around it or the life within it. 

Gabe had shown Sam little true emotion. He had treated this threat as if it was something the Winchesters should care about because it was a greater threat to humanity. And they did. In conversation, he’d picked up small bits of emotion from Gabriel. The conflict between his brothers bothered him - it’s why he’d left heaven. He seemed like he mourned the loss of a number of families.

It stood to reason that angels could have feelings because obviously Cas did, but sometimes Cas seemed like a whole different species from other angels, and most especially archangels. 

But now there were the reassembled pieces of Gabriel’s grace in his brain. At first, it’d been like shards of shrapnel tossed throughout every reach of his thoughts and memories. But once Gabriel had pieced them back together, he still only had a vague understanding of this knowledge he now contained, but some of the answers were so resounding, so clear that it was difficult to mistake them.

Was Gabriel battling the darkness? Yes. Sam could see it now in a dream-like picture Castiel had shown him from within Gabriel’s true form. It was like a cloud moving over the moon.

Why did Gabriel come to them for help? That answer was less clear, less complete. But his brain supplied a single succinct word: Family. 

Aside from that, he had felt it clear as day: Fear. Gabriel was afraid. 

And so now, Sam was also afraid for him, because Gabriel was a being for whom he was capable of empathy.

Eventually, Dean cleared his throat and offered to bring some food in while they waited, but Sam declined. He should be hungry, but his stomach was a distant thought. 

When Dean just sat back down after Sam declined and kept whittling, Sam recognized that Dean had been looking for something to do, an act of service, the gift of focusing on another, more than anything. He felt bad about denying his brother the distraction, but there was no way he could eat. 

Sam glanced at the clock about a thousand times each hour and each minute went by agonizingly slow. 

He had just marked the time at 3:13am, then looked away, drumming his fingers, when the bunker started to shake. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Isn't Love by Joe Purdy.
> 
> This fic has a playlist! If you enjoy music, here are the songs that helped inspire and guide this fanfic: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7jNfMfZcNsuruH6mhpklZW?si=Tn5PrRwuRVWNy08duw-DCA.


	20. Here Comes the Sun King

Sam was on his feet instantly, angel blade in hand. A high-pitched ring preceded blinding light, giving just a second of warning for him to throw his hand over his eyes. Through the cracks in his fingers and the thin layer of his eyelids, he could tell when the brilliance began dimming,  and he blinked his eyes back open.

Oddly, as he looked around the room, the glow did not disappear entirely, just became bearable to look at. It settled over the room in a haze that reminded Sam of the morning sun settling over water. 

“Look,” Castiel said softly, reaching a hand out toward the wall. It was writhing.

Woody vines wriggled and snaked up the walls, over the rails of the mezzanine and continued up to the ceiling across every surface in the room. Green leaves, not the deep green of ivy, but the bright, chartreuse green of young spring buds. They sprouted all over as the vines grew wider and tougher, thickening to the size of young trees. 

Sam struggled against the bright spike of optimism in his mind. Gabriel was a trickster god. Who the hell knew what the proliferation of plants meant.

Tiny white flowers with yellow throats sprung up. Vines began to streak across the ceiling, hanging lush green fingers down, unfurling low enough to brush Sam’s head. 

Dean eyed it all suspiciously, dodging when a vine reached down for him, his knuckles white around the hilt of the angel blade. Castiel had dropped his guard completely. He was running his fingers over the living walls, and Sam had an amusing vision of what Cas would look like on magic mushrooms. 

“Peculiar,” Cas knelt down and touched one hand gently to the bright red petals of a poppy, careful not to crush it under his hand. The floor had transformed into a meadow of tall grass and wildflowers. “It feels like Spring.”

Sam turned when he heard a creak behind him to see vines climbing both down from the ceiling and up from the floor to lay thick over the Christmas tree. Straining under the weight of the overgrowth, the tree sagged to one side, now mostly just a lump of vines. 

“It is.”

Sam jumped and whirled together with Dean to see Gabriel, returned to human form, jump up from the chair. 

He threw his hands out victoriously and proclaimed, “All hail the Oak King!”

As the final words left his mouth, an enormous purple flower sprouted from the ground, so large it physically shoved Sam out of the way as it shot up right beside him. The blossom grew three feet, four feet, five feet before finally unfolding and a white stamen erupted from the middle. 

The overwhelming stench of  _ ass  _ filled the room. 

At the epicenter of it, Sam gagged and slammed a hand over his mouth. He fled to the other side of the room, struggling not to trip over vines and plants. 

“What the hell, Gabe?” Dean choked out, eyes watering as he waved futilely in front of his face with one hand and held his nose with the other. 

Cas, predictably, appeared both unaffected and confused by their reaction.

“What? Not a fan of giant phallic symbols of nature god randiness?” Gabe’s grin was as big as Sam had ever seen it.

“I hate you so much,” Dean grumbled, exasperated. 

“Alright, alright. I’ll put it away,” Gabriel acquiesced with a flirty wave of his hand. “But only because you asked so  _ nice _ .”

The flower closed up and shrunk first into a tall, shriveled husk, then fell down and the vines on the floor closed up over it. The scent sucked out of the air with it, and Sam and Dean both inhaled a deep gulp of fresh air. 

Once recovered, Sam projected his voice across the room to ask, “What happened?”

Gabe quirked an eyebrow at him, “I thought that would be obvious. Beat the Holly King, spring will come, let the groundhog know. All that jazz.”

Sam narrowed his eyes into a glare. 

Cas cut in, clarifying for him, “I think he is asking how, not what.”

“Well, it’s a little hard to explain, but you each helped deal a blow to the darkness before I came up for the finisher, so the Holly King was considerably weakened. I had to take the boss fight to a celestial plane to avoid scorching a hole the size of Kansas into the earth.” 

“Oh,” Dean said, resheathing his angel blade. “So we’re not gonna kill anything? This is just a bunch of namby-pamby feelings bullshit?”

Gabriel laughed heartily at that, “Sorry to disappoint, sport.” 

Then he blinked into existence in front of Dean and booped him on the nose. He blinked away just in time to avoid Dean’s fist in his face.

Across the room, where he reappeared, Gabriel swayed almost imperceptibly, leaning one hip against a table. Sam was watching him closely, though, and noticed. Likewise, the spring display around them shriveled a little, sagging under the weight of it's own lushness like overripe fruit. 

“I think it may be time for all of us to rest. We can debrief in the morning.”

At that, Gabriel's legs swayed and gave out. All around them the vines began to slither back into oblivion. The Christmas tree sprang back up with an elastic swing, throwing a couple of candles off to thud against the wall and roll across the floor.

Sam was closer, but Castiel reached him first through supernatural speed. They hauled him up from either side, his arms around their shoulders. 

“I can,” Gabe tried to wave them away, still in good humor, as he stared down at his legs. “Well, actually, I can’t control this body right now. But there's no need to drag it around. I can just return to the celestial plane to recover.”

Sam’s stomach turned at the thought of leaving Gabe’s empty vessel lying in the floor like a corpse. It was just too soon after the trial.

“Shut up, Gabe,” Sam grumbled. 

With a sigh, Dean said, “Take him to Charlie’s room. The bed is made.”

If circumstances had been different, Sam would have lingered on Dean’s statement, wondering why Dean had made Charlie’s bed. He might have also been surprised that out of all the options, Dean would offer Charlie’s room at all for an archangel he didn’t seem particularly fond of. But circumstances being what they were, Sam just dragged Gabriel out of the room with Cas’ help. 

They maneuvered him into Charlie’s room, Sam pushing his feet up on the bed after they’d dropped his head down on the pillow. Sam reached over and turned the knob on the lamp to illuminate the room.

“Stay,” Sam instructed the archangel as he and Cas stepped out of the room. 

As he shut the door, he heard Gabriel murmur, “I am at your command, Sammy.”

In the hallway, Sam lowered his voice and asked Cas, “Do you think he’s OK?”

“He appears whole. Just spent,” Cas confirmed, speaking softly to match Sam. “He’ll probably just need a few days to recover.”

Sam nodded thoughtfully, trying to decide how to play this. He was obviously going to poke his head back in, but was he coming back to stay? Or was he going to just say goodnight and hope that Gabe would be there in the morning still? How fast did archangels recharge their batteries?

He glanced up. Cas was still there looking at him. “Oh, uh, sorry, Cas. I’ve got this. You can -”

What would Cas go and do? He realized that he and Cas were both in a strange position right now. He put a hand on Cas’ shoulder. 

“You and Dean. You should talk, yeah?”

“I doubt he will be up for that after today’s events,” Cas shrugged.

“Yeah, maybe not tonight. But tomorrow, be forceful with him, OK?”

Sam squeezed his shoulder, then released him to go to his room and change. Cas stayed where he was, but by the time Sam returned into the hall with his duvet over his arm in his sweats, Cas was gone. 

He eased the door open to Charlie’s room and glanced over at the bed, where Gabriel was now curled over onto his side. His eyes were shut.

Wait. His eyes were shut. 

Sam threw down his duvet and reached the bed in two large steps, panicking.

“Gabe!”

Gabe’s squinted open. “Relax, Sam. Just thinking.”

“Oh, sorry, I just -” Sam leaned away, hiding his embarrassment by turning back to grab the duvet. 

“Yeah, it’s weird for me too,” Gabe acknowledged quietly. “I can count on one hand the times I’ve been this whammied.”

When he turned back around, Gabe’s eyes flicked between the duvet he was holding and his face, but he said nothing. It didn’t need to be said. Sam put the duvet down in the armchair that Charlie had stolen from the Great Room for herself. 

“I’m just gonna get you under these,” Sam announced. When he reached over to shimmy the sheets down underneath Gabe, a pillow rose up and hit him on the head. Sam wrestled the pillow and threw it off into the corner.

Sam noticed that even the small act strained Gabriel further, who turned pale. “Stop being such an epic show off!” Sam commanded.

“If I don’t have enough power anymore to show off for you, just kill me now.” 

Gabe waved a hand and the covers tidily reappeared over Gabe’s form, tucking him in.

Sam sighed, rolling his eyes. 

“You know being in a bed doesn’t really do anything for me. I don’t need good back support for my aching bones and all that,” Gabe said as Sam rearranged the arm chair, closer to the bed.

“Well, it does something for me,” Sam replied huffily, then winced when he realized the joke he'd left himself open for.

In return, Gabriel just mumbled a suggestive, “Mmmm,” in return, which was almost worse than the leering joke he'd expected. He watched as Gabe just went blank, like falling into a trance, eyes open and dull. 

Sam looked away and warred on what to do next. Concern and suspicion urged him to stay. Concern about Gabriel: the same that would keep him by Dean or Cas' bedside if they were hurt. Suspicion. No, not the same as before - Cas had shown him who Gabriel was, at least the parts that were relevant to this particular misadventure. Just suspicion that somehow this could be a ruse and Gabriel had not defeated his darkness. 

Finally, there was desire just to be here. Just to be the person that stood guard. He had felt Gabriel’s fear. He knew that Gabe longed for family, and Sam could understand that because family was everything to him too. The security of him, Dean and Cas, it was what grounded him in life. 

Perhaps he wanted to be the one that protected Gabriel when he was weak. To fill that role for now at least. 

In a knee-jerk response, Sam felt his walls attempting to slam shut, telling him to close himself off to all of it. Gabriel could take care of himself (probably true) and Sam was dangerously close to letting him in. 

But his trial had shown him at least one truth: Sam had a lack of trust, not for Gabriel, but for himself, and perhaps it was unwarranted. He had been the first to figure out what Gabriel was hiding from them. He had judged Gabe’s intentions and character again and again while Dean and Cas had wallowed in their own issues. And after all, he’d found out that his suspicions were correct, but so was his judgement of character. 

Maybe he had everything he needed to make good judgements about Gabriel. And spending the night watching vigil in this chair did not impair that ability, nor did it make any promises about where things were going. 

With that, he picked up and readjusted the chair (away from Gabriel's inhumanly open eyes,) propped his feet up on the end of the bed and pulled the duvet over him. He drifted off almost immediately, utterly exhausted, without even bothering to turn off the lamp.

  
  
  


Castiel stood in the hallway for more than a minute after Sam’s door shut, frozen with indecision. Down the hallway, he could hear Dean shuffling around. Dean typically shut his door immediately when he entered his bedroom, a paranoid habit that allowed the lifelong hunter to actually be able to relax in the space. Right now, his door was wide open, light spilling out into the hallway, and that was as clear of an invitation as Cas was going to get. 

He measured each step as he walked down the hallway and finally turned in the doorway, neither in nor out. Dean sat in the chair, midway through pulling off his boots. When their eyes met, the uncertainty in Dean’s expression spread to him with the barest trickle of fear. 

“How is Gabriel?” Dean turned back to his work, untying the remainder of his laces and pulling a boot off with a jerk.

“He should recover. He appears to be depleted, not wounded.”

Both socked feet free, Dean wiggled his toes and scrubbed the heel of his palms over his eyes, “I don’t know if I’m happy about that or disappointed.”

While Castiel did not feel the same, he understood why Dean would feel ambivalent if Gabriel was mortally wounded. Gabriel had been more of a threat and troublemaker to Dean’s family and his home, rather than a help. Not to mention, Gabriel and Dean got along like oil and water. He might never fully trust Gabriel or welcome him. 

Dean stood and looked pointedly between Castiel and the open door.

“Are you coming or going?”

Pinned under the hard bite of Dean’s gaze, Castiel searched Dean’s face to try to ascertain what he wanted and found him utterly unreadable. Dean Winchester was nothing if not capable of completely concealing his emotions behind a veil of alternating anger or humor.

Castiel stepped forward and shut the door behind him. Dean turned away, going to the dresser to pull out a threadbare cotton t-shirt, but Castiel could see the tension visibly leave his shoulders. He had made the right decision. 

Feeling the tight coil in his chest unwind, Castiel knew at least one thing needed to be said tonight. “Dean, I am sorry I didn’t tell you about Amara. I didn’t want to impact your opinion of her.”

“Tell me what?” Dean asked, faced away from Castiel as he pulled off his belt and threw his jeans over the chair.

Castiel had tried to tell Dean several times about what Amara had revealed to him, but he’d never wanted Dean to know  **_how_ ** she told him. Clearly, she had not been truthful in what she’d revealed, and in the beginning, Castiel had also believed she could be lying. But it was simply too believable - Dean hadn’t given him any reason to think otherwise. She’d broken his disbelief all too quickly, but she didn’t realize that it still wouldn’t help her accomplish her purpose.

“You saw, in the Trial. That was just one of a thousand times that she tried to get me to reveal your location to her.”

Dean paused as he pulled back the edge of the covers, turning around to Castiel in boxers and his t-shirt. “Wait, are you saying that was real?”

“To be honest, I am not sure what was real anymore or what wasn’t. But yes, when I was Lucifer’s vessel, after he was captured by Amara, she spoke to me about you while she was torturing Lucifer. The trial pulled at least the beginning straight from my memories. It was real to me.”

Dean didn’t sit down on the edge of the bed, so much as collapse, looking utterly exhausted. 

“How? Was she lying to me?”

“I don’t know. I think Gabriel was trying to show me. I think he may understand why and what was a lie,” Castiel explained. With his eyes closed, Dean’s lips twisted and he looked ill. Feeling bad that he had brought it up at all, Castiel gingerly sat down beside him, not touching, but close.

“You’re tired,” he said, trying to close the conversation.

“Understatement of the fucking year,” Dean mumbled, opening his eyes again to look at Castiel. 

The desire to wrap his arms around Dean was so strong it was like his arms were laden with it. He was so close, and the moment so intimate, like countless others they’d shared with no thought about them being special or finite. Castiel looked down at the golden hair dusting Dean’s thighs before he slid his eyes back up to Dean’s.

His wandering gaze did not go unnoticed, but Dean opted not to comment.

“We should talk more tomorrow. Perhaps Gabriel will be lucid too,” Castiel said.

Dean scrunched up his nose and repeated with distaste, “Talk more.”

Castiel smiled. He missed the casual nature in which Dean had been his. The permission to knead his shoulders. The ability to run a hand through his hair. He was uncertain where that stood now.

Breaking his gaze, Dean returned to turning down the sheets and Castiel shifted to stand as Dean scooted so he could put his feet under the blankets. 

“Maybe I’ll just sleep through tomorrow,” Dean murmured petulantly as he turned away to put his head on the pillow.

“The day after then,” Castiel replied.

Dean groaned in frustration, “That day too. As many as it takes.”

Castiel laughed, even as the familiar feeling of being out of place and uncertain returned to him, standing here at Dean’s bedside, not knowing where he belonged.

“What are you doing?” Dean griped. “Are you going to stand there like a gargoyle all night?”

He flipped around, hair mussed, and glared at Castiel, reading his uncertainty like a book.

“Get. In. Bed.”

Not wanting to test Dean’s patience further, or spend one more minute in doubt and hesitation, Castiel simply appeared underneath the covers beside Dean, in his sleep clothes, and Dean jumped just a little.

“Fucking angels,” he grumbled quietly, but he still slid the bar of his forearm tight around Castiel’s waist and sidled up behind him, falling asleep almost immediately with his even breath brushing the nape of Castiel’s neck. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think we all know this one. Chapter title from The Beatles.
> 
> This fic has a playlist! If you enjoy music, here are the songs that helped inspire and guide this fanfic: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7jNfMfZcNsuruH6mhpklZW?si=Tn5PrRwuRVWNy08duw-DCA.


	21. God is Fair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things heat up between Sam & Gabe. You'll know where to start scrolling if you're not into that.

With no windows in the bedrooms, it was easy to sleep in at the bunker. On that particular night, Dean slept late into the morning in blissful darkness with no dreams for the first time in more than two weeks. 

He blinked awake slowly, the alarm clock the only light in the room. He worked to reacquaint himself with the night’s events. 

First off - he leaned up to peak over his shoulder to confirm that Cas had indeed come to bed with him. Cas was still facing away from him, breathing even and deep, but Dean knew he was not asleep. He recalled going to bed wrapped around him from behind, so Dean must have tossed away in his sleep. 

Cas had explained before that he spent his nights in a meditative trance, adrift in the space of his being. When Dean told him he didn’t expect Cas to lie around in bed because he did, Cas informed him that it was typical for angels to pass long periods of time in meditation, years even, waiting for orders. Which was why Cas was unbothered spending a few hours most days resting alongside him. To be honest, the answer had made Dean happy, who was less gracious than he wanted to appear about the idea of waking up alone.

As he often did, Cas gave Dean time to himself this morning to wake up slowly, not stirring even though he definitely knew Dean was up. 

The revelations about Sam from yesterday were plenty to think on. Of course, he didn’t see Sam’s fears coming up again soon as a life or death scenario, but he was concerned that Sam had so little faith in himself. Dean couldn’t help but feel like he’d heaped a good bit of that insecurity and mistrust on Sam himself, and he needed to figure out a way to undo that. 

But the whole Gabriel thing? Dean could not wrap his brain around that, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. Who Sam slept with was his business anyway. Dean just hoped he was fucking quiet about it. Because… ew. 

Dean shifted onto his back carefully, trying not to jostle Cas, hoping that Cas would take the hint and leave him to his thoughts a bit longer.

The bigger revelations from yesterday, of course, was the fact that Cas was painfully insecure about Dean’s feelings for him. Watching another person get stripped bare like that - it made Dean more uncomfortable really than having his own insecurities on display. He wanted to wrap both Sam and Cas up in million blankets and hide them away from the world to lick their wounds. Of course, he knew that was his own shit because Sam had seemed embarrassed, but in good spirits, and Cas didn’t know that feelings were something to be ashamed of.

Cas thought he loved Amara. He was jealous, insecure. Dean felt ashamed that the idea lit him up a little. An immortal being of incredible power was torn up about whether Dean Winchester wanted him. Dean. Winchester. 

So jealous and insecure, in fact, that he’d come straight back and broken up with him out of some misguided attempt to let him go. So he could pursue Amara. The idea was absurd. It was so freaking boneheaded that only Castiel could think it up. 

Cas had given him what he’d always wanted - messiness. What was love really love without struggle? Without frustration and resentment and insecurity? Castiel, an angel of the lord, felt that for him. 

It sure was affirming. But it was also awful. 

Perhaps it was a mistake to have invited him in last night at all. Dean had been exhausted, but also buoyed and hopeful from the trials, and he’d offered Charlie’s bedroom for Gabriel to recover in. 

Finally, he turned all the way, sliding his arm underneath his head to lean up over Cas. This morning, at least, he didn’t want to inflict more pain. 

He left behind his thoughts and pulled the angel back against him in bed, knowing Cas would come to from his meditative state.

Cas rolled over immediately, and then his lips were on Dean’s and firm fingers wrapped around his ribs and travelled up to grip his jaw. He pushed his tongue into Dean’s  mouth and tried to coax him out, pushing him backward to the pillow and following him every inch of the way. It was possessive and desperate and relieved, and Dean knew he had to stop him.

Dean pushed his head back to pull his mouth free enough to run his hands soothingly over Cas’ sides and murmur, “Hey. Hey.”

“Hey,” was all that Cas said in return, leaning back to read Dean’s expression.

Wriggling his hand free from their bodies, Dean lifted it up to rest his fingers along the nape of Cas’ neck, his thumb brushing the soft skin between ear and cheek. 

For just a beat, he looked up into Cas’ dark eyes, his expression mostly obscured in the dim room. Still in awe. Forever in awe that Cas would actually love him.

“Cas, I need a little time to think over everything that just happened.” 

Dean hated having to say it. He hated himself for saying it. He was so not worth Cas’ time.

Cas leaned away, extracting himself from Dean’s hands, but not ungently. His eyes displayed his concern, but he replied earnestly, “I understand. I also have things I need to think over. And I need to speak with Gabriel.”

“Can we put a pin in this, then, until later?” Dean asked.

Cas considered his request thoughtfully as Dean sat up too, both of them gaining a little distance in the bed.

“Yes, that is acceptable. But I need you to assure me that you will not come to any decisions without us having a chance to discuss them together.”

That was… that would be a hard thing to do. Dean felt himself waffling on the edge of a decision already. One that Cas probably wouldn’t like, but that would undoubtedly be better for him. 

“I’ll do my best,” Dean replied, with a smile he didn’t feel.

  
  
  
  


When Sam came to, he was startled to find himself in a bed that wasn’t his own. Disoriented, his head whipped around the room, trying to remember where he was. Oh right, he was in Charlie’s room. But why was he in the bed?

His gaze landed on Gabriel, who was sitting in the chair Sam had fallen asleep in with his feet propped up on the bed, flipping through Charlie’s Harry Potter book. He did not look up.

“I figured you needed the bed more than I did. Once I had enough grace restored to swap us out, I whisked you off to bed.”

Sam shot straight up, patting down his chest and then his thighs, making sure his clothes were still there. They were. Gabe lifted his eyes from the book and smirked at him.

“Don’t worry, Sammy, your virtue is still intact.”

Sam narrowed his eyes.

“I wouldn’t put somnophilia past you,” Sam’s voice was hoarse as he replied, still coming out of the fog of sleep.

“Neither would I,” Gabe agreed as he put the book back down on the bedside table beside the lamp. “But, alas, I thought getting pervy with you in your sleep might run counter to my long-term goals, so I was gentlemanly.”

Sam wanted to ask about Gabe’s long-term goals, but he wasn’t sure if he was ready for the answer. He couldn’t hold back a laugh, though.

“You must be feeling better,” he said.

“Lucid anyway. That’s what we aim for.”

Sam nodded in response, relieved to see Gabe restored. 

“I’m not going to lie,” Gabe continued, and his gaze turned a little predatory. “It got me a little hot and bothered coming out of my trance to find you still here. Maybe I’m discovering some new kink?”

“I -” Sam’s mouth opened and shut. His pulse jumped up into his throat. What was the answer to this question? He wanted to watch over him? He wanted to be there when Gabe woke up? God that sounded so fucking sappy.

But more importantly, what the hell was going on here? He tried to weigh the heat in Gabriel’s gaze. Gabe flirted all the time and almost spoke in a language of sexual innuendo, so it was difficult to tell if he was actually coming onto you. 

Gabe was still staring into him, waiting for his response. Sam felt a fight or flight response rise up in him, as if he was prey for a predator. What was the question again?

With a shaky shrug, he croaked out, “I don’t know.”

Gabe leaned in, one knee pressing down into the bed, drawing Sam’s knee closer to his through gravity, and put his hand on the other side of Sam’s hip as he leaned in over him. Sam gulped as he looked up. Gabe’s gaze never broke - he did not blink.

Definitely coming onto him. 

Sam’s felt heat and arousal shoot down his spine. He fought not to arch his back. 

Gabe leaned closer and his lips brushed against Sam’s ear as he said, “I think I’ve recovered just enough to fuck you senseless.”

Sam inhaled a sharp breath like he’d been punched right in the diaphragm. Holy shit.

Gabe leaned back, wanting to watch Sam’s reaction, the smug bastard, but also reading his face, searching, “That is, if that’s what you want.”

Sam had no control over his response at all as his hands fisted in Gabe’s sweater, and he slammed their mouths together. 

Kissing Gabriel was filthy and wild. The archangel alternated between fucking his mouth with his tongue and biting at his lips. Sam fought back against him, battling for control of the kiss, and he felt Gabe’s grin against his lips. 

Gabe slammed him bodily back against the bed, and Sam’s head should have thudded into the wall, but Gabe’s hand was there, yanking his hair even as he protected him from other pain.

There was another hand fisted in Sam’s hoodie, pinning him between those two harsh grips. Wait, no, Gabe’s hand was sliding along his collarbone and up his neck. He felt a firm pressure at the base of his spine too, between the small of his back and the pillow. 

Overwhelmed, Sam tore his mouth away and up, gasping in a ragged breath. There were hands all over him. “Oh my god,” he murmured at the ceiling.

Gabe allowed him the one breath before his teeth were nibbling again at his bottom lip. Sam wrapped both hands around the backs of Gabriel’s thighs where he was kneeling between Sam’s open legs, and he tugged to fit every inch of them together. 

Sam’s brain was too foggy with need, too oxygen deprived at this point, to know how many hands were on him and what they were doing, but he sure as hell noticed when one of them slipped underneath the elastic waist of his sweats and cupped his dick over his boxers. 

Throwing his head back again, Sam’s eyes slammed shut and he grated out, “Fuck.”

“That is the idea,” Gabe retorted, running his teeth over Sam’s Adam’s apple while his neck was bared. The rough stubble of his beard rasped over Sam’s jawbone. 

Before he knew it, Gabe’s hand was on his bare cock, pulled above the band of his boxers and pants, straining hard against his abdomen. He looked at Gabe as Gabe looked down, and felt a pulse of excitement race through him so intense that he had to grit his teeth as his dick jumped in Gabe’s hand. 

“Just as perfect as I imagined you to be,” Gabe grinned at him, pulling one hand slowly from root to tip as if to demonstrate his point. Sam was past words; he just flushed at the compliment and groaned. The realization that Gabe had pictured his cock before didn’t help either. He was just along for the ride at this point.

A thumb slid along the underside of his dick and swirled around the head as Gabe pushed his tongue back into Sam’s mouth. He felt another hand slip below the elastic band of his boxers again and squeeze his balls. 

The haze in his brain parted just long enough for him to remember that he also had hands. He used them to reach out to Gabe’s belt, slide the end of it out from his belt loops and tug it back against the buckle. 

Gabe tugged his dick fiercely, running his hand all the way over the head, and pressed behind Sam’s balls at the same time. Sam gasped and his hands shook, the button of Gabe’s jeans slipping out his fingers. 

He glared up at Gabe, whose self-satisfied grin told Sam he was distracting him on purpose. With determination, Sam yanked the button open and pulled the zipper down, gritting his teeth against Gabe rubbing up and down his dick while massaging his perineum like a damn pro.

Finally, he’d shoved down Gabriel’s boxers and his dick popped free. Sam barely got a second glance before Gabe growled and shoved him back against the headboard again. Their erections bumped together, both awkward and hot as hell. 

There were teeth on his collarbone, nipping gently, before Gabe mouthed hot along his neck. Not sucking, just open-mouthed kissing. Then two hands encircled both of their dicks, and sweet Jesus in heaven, they were slick. There was still a hand alternately rolling his balls and rubbing into his perineum too. 

Holy shit. Sam was mad that Dean had spent so much more time than him having sex with an angel if it was always like this. Even as the thought came to him, he cringed and shoved it away. He did not want to think about Dean right now. 

It was easy to snap back to the present when one of Gabe’s hands slid up over the head of both their dicks, grinding the sensitive undersides together. 

Gabe nibbled on his earlobe, beard scraping along his cheek, then he returned to Sam’s mouth, sucking Sam’s tongue between his lips. The teeth of Gabe’s zipper rubbed against his inner thighs, and he used a hand to push the jeans further down. He slid a hand underneath the elastic of Gabe’s briefs and reached underneath Gabriel’s two hands fisted around their dicks to cup his balls. 

Gabe moaned against his mouth, and Sam felt a thrill at the idea of making the archangel lose his control the way he was making Sam lose his. 

He slid his legs wider, Gabe settling further into the v of his thighs, and used the leverage to slip down the headboard a bit and settle more into the pillows. Gabe reached out a hand, slamming it down beside Sam’s head to keep his balance as Sam shifted them around. The two hands continued sending pleasure up his spine, bringing him closer to climaxing, never letting up, perfectly wet and hot.

He moved his hand away from Gabe’s balls, bringing it behind Gabriel to grab his ass and yank him closer, trying to throw him off-balance, knowing he wouldn’t. Gabe moaned again, picking up the pace as they both strained and thrusted against each other. 

With his other hand, Sam jerked up his sweatshirt and t-shirt together, revealing the skin of his stomach up to his chest. Gabe tore his mouth away, glancing down the newly revealed skin and the line of dark hair travelling from Sam’s belly button down to the red tips of their cocks. 

Sam leaned his head to the side, lips against Gabe’s ear and he growled, “Come on me.”

Like flipping a switch, Gabe’s head snapped back and his hands stuttered to a stop between them. Where they were joined in the vice of Gabe’s hands, he felt Gabe’s cock pulse, then Gabe’s hands tightened again and he wrung a second pulse out between them.

The moment Sam felt semen splatter, hitting above his belly button first, his back arched off the bed and he let himself go too. 

Gabe’s grip softened, releasing himself first and gently stroking Sam through his release too. Avoiding the mess between them, Gabe propped himself on his elbow at Sam’s side, panting hard against Sam’s neck while Sam took deep shuddering breaths. 

“That was…” Sam started, stopping mid-sentence to breathe.

“Yeah,” Gabe agreed, enthusiastic, but thready. 

Gabe laid his head down between Sam’s neck and shoulders, with just a single hand tracing a small pattern against his hip bone.

As Sam’s pulse slowed and his breath started to become slow and even, he came back into his head, into his body, and a bit of anxiety trickled in. 

He was still mostly dressed, but his skin and his clothes were sticky and covered in come. But more than that - where would this afterglow moment go? He didn’t really understand what was going on between him and Gabe, or where it was going. Should he get up and just go get cleaned up in the bathroom? Should he stay and talk? Or kiss Gabe?

“I can feel you panicking,” Gabe teased. He leaned back up to look at him, propping his head on one hand, elbow stretched out beside Sam’s head. Sam covered his face with both hands, unable to stop an embarrassed snort from escaping his lips.

Sam could feel the rumble of Gabe’s laugh through his chest where it pressed against his shoulder. Gabe tugged at his nearest forearm, and Sam let his hands fall away from his face, laughing too.

“That was hot,” Gabe said, and Sam felt a shiver of futile arousal shoot through him as he ran his hand along the side of Sam’s abs, right beside their commingled semen on his belly. “I definitely want to do that again. And I’m comfortable leaving it at that for now, if you are.”

Sam nodded, “Yeah. I’m good with that.”

Gabe beamed in return, bright and whimsical as always. 

“Well then. Allow me,” he snapped his fingers just for show, and both of them were clean and properly tucked away instantly. 

Sam took just two extra moments to recover his breath and his senses, then he slid his legs over the side of the bed and his eye caught on Charlie’s copy of the Half Blood Prince. Shame flickered through him for a second when he realized he’d just had wild sex with an archangel in Charlie’s bed, but then he realized that Charlie probably would have enthusiastically approved of her bed being used for such a purpose. 

His stomach rumbled, having been ignored far too often the last couple of days. 

Turning back to Gabe, he started to say, “I’m gonna go-”

But he stopped when he realized Gabe had slipped back into his meditative trance. Clearly he hadn’t been lying when he said he’d recovered exactly enough grace to fuck Sam. 

Sam couldn’t prevent the shit-eating grin from spreading across his face. He’d worn out an archangel. 

  
  
  


When Dean stepped out of the bathroom, towel around his waist, Cas was gone and the bed was neatly made. Dean felt the bottom of his stomach drop out, as if he hadn’t literally just asked Cas to give him space. He viscerally wanted to curl up inside Cas and never leave.

Dean exhaled a deep breath and opened the door. He poked a head into the Great Room on his way down the hall. The yule log was still burning strong, only about a third of it consumed for fuel so far. He continued on to the kitchen.

He opened the refrigerator and pulled several things out onto the corner, getting bacon in the pan. Sam joined him right as it was starting to sizzle.

“I realize it’s 1pm, but I still thought breakfast was in order,” Dean threw over his shoulder in lieu of a greeting. 

Sam flopped down at the table, eyes transfixed on the coffee pot, which was still dripping because Dean had only gotten it started a minute or two before. He waved a hand, a smile on his face, “Breakfast sounds great.”

Dean raised an eyebrow suspiciously. Sam had a particular look about him that Dean knew well.

He decided to test the waters.

“I was thinking of cooking bacon and sausage. You know, to celebrate,” he watched Sam’s expression closely. His brother was slouched loosely in the chair, arms slung out wide over the backs of the two nearest chairs.

“Whatever floats your boat,” Sam shrugged, that stupid smile still present.

He fucking knew it.

Dean scrunched up his nose and gagged, “Ewww, dude. You didn’t waste any time. Don’t come in here stinking up the room with your recent conquest energy.”

Flushing beet red, Sam jerked out of his languid sprawl and squawked defensively, “I’m not trying to come in here with any energy! I’m just hungry.”

Turning on his heel, Dean gestured over his shoulder with a spatula, “Just sit over there and shut up. I can’t look at you.”

“Hey!” Sam shouted, his voice rising a few octaves. “Hold up a second. Usually you’d be congratulating me for sewing my wild oats for once or whatever.”

Dean held a hand to his heart at the all too vivid visual of his brother sewing his wild oats with Gabriel. He still didn’t look at Sam when he replied, “Well  _ usually  _ you’re not fucking Gabriel.”

Sam went quiet, but Dean could still feel the daggers glaring into his back. He hoped it meant that they’d get to spend the rest of breakfast ignoring each other until Sam got that just-fucked grin off his stupid face and that skip out of his step, but alas, he knew his brother too well.

He was worried he’d tipped his hand. Sam was absolutely right that Dean would typically have given him a wink and a nudge and said something like “you dog” while Sam turned red. Hell, Sam could have been getting his rocks off with Crowley, and Dean still would have congratulated him before launching into a lecture.

“You haven’t made up with Cas yet,” Sam stated with dawning realization.

Damn it. Definitely tipped his hand. 

Dean made a non-committal grumble under his throat.

“You are really harshing my buzz right now, dude.” 

Dean wanted to hurl again. He whirled around brandishing his spatula threateningly. “I swear to everything holy, Sam -”

Sam cut in before he could finish, “I can’t believe you! Why do you have to make everything so damn hard!”

The wind physically went out of Dean’s sails as he blew out a long breath and shrugged into the chair opposite Sam. He threw the spatula down on the table and a few flecks of bacon grease flew off. 

The bacon sizzled, the coffee dripped, the toaster popped in the corner with a piece of burnt bread. 

Finally, Dean said, “I don’t know, Sam. It was alright when I thought he didn’t love me. But now that I know, I just don’t know.”

Sam’s face was mad. Furious. He put his face in his hands and tried to wipe it away. Eventually, he just leaned forward, chin propped on his hand, grasping at understanding. 

“But you love him,” Sam said, a statement and a question.

Dean rubbed at his eyes, “I’m just a bunch of spare parts. I feel like I’ve been torn apart and put back together so many times. I’m barely holding it together most days. What would he want with that?”

This time, the anger did fade out of Sam and he looked at Dean with his stupid puppy-dog sad eyes, laying his arms down flat on the table. It was as if he was reaching out, but he stayed a good two feet from Dean still.

“That’s kind of not the point of being in love with someone.”

Dean felt rage curl up in him, trying to shut him down and end this brotherly sharing and caring moment. He held it back with white knuckles and a weakening grip. 

“I’m just gonna fuck him up. I already have.”

“First of all, that’s not true. Cas is almost the only angel who isn’t a total dick, and that’s because of you. But all of that aside, it’s not your decision either way. It’s his. He gets to decide if he wants to be with you.”

Sam argument was completely idiotic. All Dean had done was make Cas’ life harder and given him more difficult choices. If not for him, Cas wouldn’t have gone to purgatory or gotten his brain hacked or given a ridealong to Lucifer. He wouldn’t have been broken apart by Amara and her shit.

“There are two people in a relationship, and if one of them says it’s over, pretty sure that counts for something. You know, the old ‘no means no,’ Mr. Women’s Lib,” Dean snarked.

Sam gritted his teeth and took a deep breath before he retorted, “I’m not trying to tell you that you can’t walk away. I am just telling you that you don’t get to make decisions on people’s behalf that you think are in their best interests. All that you should be worried about is what you want and need. What is in your own best interests.”

“That sounds selfish as hell,” Dean bit back.

“It’s not selfish. It’s just called being a healthy person,” Sam shot right back. When Dean opened his mouth, he held up a hand and rushed ahead, “No, listen. I can’t believe you beat your trial because you still haven’t learned anything.”

Dean glared at Sam, but stayed quiet, sensing a lecture coming on. Sam often resembled their dad, in that their dad was like a funhouse mirror reflection of Sam - suspicious, paranoid and a touch obsessive about certain things. But Sam could lecture in a way that only Mary Winchester could have rivalled. 

Dean clambered to his feet and flipped the bacon, then sat back down with an expression of resignation.

Sam continued.

“Cas said this to you yesterday. We don’t need you, we love you. You need to start making decisions because they are right for you, instead of trying to do what you think is best for everyone else.

“You always sacrifice your own needs in order to give others what you  _ think  _ they need. It has to stop. If you don’t want to be with Cas because of you, that’s fine. But if you don’t want to be with him because you don’t think it’s right for him, that’s fucked up. Because Cas is perfectly capable of deciding what is right for him.”

Dean did want to be with Cas. He wanted to be with Cas until their shitty life took one or both of them away for good. But could he curse another person to this life forever like he did to Sam?

“Dean, I promise you I am choosing this life. And so is Cas. Both of us are choosing where we want to be, and we’re also choosing to love you.”

Sam was reading his damn mind. He narrowed his eyes at him. 

“Will you just talk to Cas? And hear him out? Let him make his own decision?” Sam pleaded. Cas and Sam getting close was probably one of the best and worst things that had ever happened to him. They thought so alike it was like they were ganging up on him, even when they’d never even conferred on something. 

He considered Sam, in particular, and how little trust he had in himself. Dean knew he’d contributed to that. He’d been so mad each time Sam made the wrong call when it was so easy for Dean to see the right one. But there wasn’t a soul on earth he trusted more than his brother, and every time Dean tried to make the right decision for him or subtly manipulate him in one direction or the other, it seemed like it had undermined Sam’s confidence in himself. 

Even now, he wanted to tell Gabriel to stay the hell away from his brother, and yell at Sam for getting close to a being that could never understand them. Isn’t that exactly what Dean had been like in Sam’s trial?

“I’ll talk to him,” Dean relented. 

Sam looked stupidly happy - like jump in the air with a Free Willy fist pump happy. Dean hated him. Sam pushed harder, “And you’ll listen and give him whatever time it takes.”

Dean groaned, putting his head down on his hands, “ _ Fine _ .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from God is Fair, Sexy Nasty by Mac Miller & Kendrick Lamar.
> 
> This fic has a playlist! If you enjoy music, here are the songs that helped inspire and guide this fanfic: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7jNfMfZcNsuruH6mhpklZW?si=Tn5PrRwuRVWNy08duw-DCA.


	22. Tracing an Old Pattern

Drifting in meditation in Dean’s bed, Castiel knew that both of the brothers passed the night with no dreams at all, descending straight into a dark sleep after weeks of restlessness and deprivation. 

Castiel sensed the moment that Sam woke in Charlie’s room, and he also knew by this point that both brothers were sensitive to him watching in on private moments, calling it “spying” or “perving,” so he shut himself off to all but Sam’s vague presence. 

Dean had woken and gotten up to shower before he opened his grace back up to extend the full expanse of the bunker. He was worried, resigned, to whatever Dean needed to think about. After all, he had requested the same of Dean not two weeks ago - space to think. How could he refuse to give it in return?

Once both brothers were in the kitchen, he flew into Charlie’s room, sitting up straight in the chair at the foot of the bed. Gabriel was lying up on top of the made bed, head resting on the pillow, facing him. His eyes blinked. 

“Hey bro,” he greeted Castiel, then used one hand to sit up. He stretched his arms up high over his head, and then crossed his legs on the bed indian style. 

Castiel tilted his head, finding it interesting that Gabriel would do such things even in front of one of his angelic brethren, who knew that muscle stiffness could be willed away with a touch of grace. 

Finally, Gabriel turned his head toward Castiel and grinned. “No rest for the wicked, eh? You and Dean back to playing hide the banana yet?”

Castiel raised his eyebrows, “I do not understand either of those sayings in this context.”

Gabriel snorted, disappointed, “Yeah. You wouldn’t. What’s up?”

Castiel jumped right to the point. 

“I wanted to understand what happened in the trials, specifically why Dean and I experienced Amara in such a different way. It seemed like you were trying to show me something during my trial.”

Gabriel puffed out an exaggerated exhale and then settled back into the headboard before he replied, “Yeah, she’s a real doozy. You know, it’s been an eon since I’ve seen her, and I’d almost forgotten what a mindfuck she is. It was still enjoyable to see Lucifer get donkey kicked for once.” 

Castiel stared blankly and narrowed his eyes. “Gabriel.”

“Oh, right, uh,” Gabriel seemed to struggle for the words. His vernacular was so honed after being an earthling for the past two millennia that he clearly relied on slang as much as the Winchesters. “Look, you were experiencing the Darkness through the lens of the devil. Think of it like looking through a kaleidoscope while you’re high on hallucinogenic mushrooms. At the end of the kaleidoscope, there’s something there that does actually exist, you are looking at something real, but it’s distorted beyond understanding.”

“So what was the real thing she was showing me? Showing us?”

“The real thing is that she isn’t evil. She just is. She’s the Darkness and Chuck is the Light, and the balance is what matters. They can’t control their natures or change themselves anymore than a drop of rain. They don’t have free will. We do.”

Castiel sighed. He didn’t think Gabriel was intentionally talking around the point, but he’d gone from one extreme to the other.

“Gabriel, while I appreciate this metaphysical dissertation, it doesn’t help me understand why she told Dean one thing and me another.”

“Because she’s the Darkness! Because she wanted something and you were in the way. Because Dean was useful to her and could be useful again in the future. I’m surprised you believed her at all,” Gabriel added the last bit with frustration in his voice, and it stung.

Castiel was ashamed that he had broken down and believed her as well. Of course, he’d never given her what she wanted, and he’d left feeling content that she hadn’t broken him, not realizing that her deceptions were a parting gift that would travel with him. 

Looking down at his hands, Castiel admitted, “I didn’t at first. I didn’t for quite some time. But Dean made it a little too believable.”

Gabriel put a hand on his shoulder and Castiel glanced at it. He continued gently, but with humor, “Yeah, you really like a fixer upper, don’t you?”

He vaguely understood the concept of a ‘fixer upper,’ since it seemed somewhat evident in the word itself. Castiel shrugged off Gabriel’s hand and flashed a warning in his eyes, “I don’t understand. But it doesn’t sound very flattering to Dean.”

Laughing outright that time, Gabe put up both his hands in a mollifying gesture, “You two are adorable. In fact, being completely honest, you seem kind of made for each other. I can’t fix Dean for you. But I can tell you that if she could see your emotions, she couldn’t understand them. And if she showed you any truths, it would have been twisted beyond recognition.” 

Castiel nodded, allowing it all to sink in. What was certain was that the trial had shown both Dean and Castiel’s true emotions to them all. He knew now that Dean felt more for him than he’d ever expressed. But what remained to be seen was what he wanted to do about those feelings, and how exactly he felt about Amara. 

If Dean did feel something for Amara, Castiel couldn’t blame him. After all, he couldn’t deny that seeing his Father return in Chuck’s form had hit him like a bolt of lightning. The presence of his maker inspired a unique form of adoration and obedience that he was almost powerless against. 

“OK. Thank you,” Castiel said, relaxing marginally. His eyes travelled over Gabriel. “How are you feeling?”

He knew he’d woken Gabriel from a restorative trance, and he did feel bad about it.

Gabriel gave him a toothy grin, “I’m walking on sunshine, little brother.”

It was infectious. Castiel’s lips quirked at the corner, “So you are feeling better?”

“Yeah,” Gabriel continued less metaphorically. “It may take another day or so of R&R, but I’ll be back into fighting shape here soon enough.”

“I’m glad you didn’t go insane,” Castiel said earnestly. He was glad for both the universe’s sake and for Gabriel’s sake. Gabriel had many flaws and mysteries about him that made Castiel wary, but he had truly begun to enjoy his company and he felt like he was on the verge of understanding him. 

Gabriel snorted, “Me too, Cas.”

“I’m happy for you and Sam too.”

There was no surprise in Gabriel’s expression, but his eyes still grew wide and he threw up both hands defensively, “Woah. Don’t go buying a wedding gift yet, Cas. Not everyone falls in love with the first human they get in the sack.”

“In any case,” Castiel shrugged and smiled in earnest. “Do remember that Sam is my family too, and I have killed an archangel before.”

That time Gabriel’s laughter was so loud it echoed down the hall and Castiel was certain the sound travelled all the way to the kitchen. 

  
  
  
  
  


Sam and Dean spent the remainder of breakfast in more casual conversation, wordlessly agreeing to avoid the topic of their fucked up love-lives. With the Holly King defeated, Sam even opened up his laptop and started browsing the news and forums for a new hunt. They also discussed the possibility of doing some kind of meal on Christmas day. 

It was nice, and the distraction helped steel Dean’s nerves for the conversation he needed to have after he finished his eggs. 

Eventually, Sam shut the laptop and stood up to stretch, letting Dean know he was going to go for a run. Dean mocked him for his healthy habits, and Sam told him he could hear Dean’s arteries hardening. It was gloriously normal. 

After he washed and dried the dishes, Dean added a few extra unnecessary logs to the fire in the Great Room and went to the Store Room to turn off the emergency lock-down system. He was sweeping up the salt lines at the front door into a dustpan when he finally had to admit to himself he was stalling. 

He took a deep breath and considered praying to Cas. Fighting against thirty-five plus years of always making the best decision for the people around you was… almost impossible. It was counter-intuitive. It was his job. Protect Sammy, even if it was from himself, do what the family needed, do the right thing.

Maybe it was more stalling, but Dean didn’t want to call Cas. He wanted to go to him for once. Or at least try to, assuming that Cas was somewhere in the bunker instead of tucked away. Hell, he could be in Paris or on an undiscovered island in the Pacific for all Dean knew. 

Dean walked back through the foyer, heading downstairs to the garage and the basement, trying to weigh the likeliest options before he remembered the Green Room.

He turned around and walked back up the stairs, following a strange path through the bunker’s hallway, past the gym and the weapon room, to the Green Room. The door was open and white, natural light cut a diagonal path across the hardwood floor into the hallway. 

When Dean stepped fully through the doorway, and his eyes landed on Cas. He was crouching down in his ridiculous tan trenchcoat examining a sprig of purple at the end of a wispy green plant, Dean knew without a doubt what he wanted and needed.

Castiel did not look up as he approached. 

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean hadn’t prepared at all before he came in, just marched right in, and now he had no idea where to start. Reaching behind him, Dean grabbed the glass door into the Green Room and shut it. He wouldn’t put it past Sam to eavesdrop. Dude was over-invested in him and Cas making a real go of it.

Then he blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

“I want to say this outright - I don’t love Amara. And she might have a hot meat suit, but I don’t even want to have sex with her. Have no interest in pursuing a relationship of any kind with her. My sexuality doesn’t really swing toward primordial beings that devour souls.”

It felt ridiculous even as it tumbled out of his mouth, and maybe he could understand Cas’ confusion, but how the hell could Cas even think that Amara would be tempting to him in that way. That was definitely some kind of vagina dentata scenario and he’d seen enough weird porn to know better.

Cas rose to his feet and looked at him now, weighing his words and his expression closely. The fountain gurgled and trickled in the silence. Distracted by the noise, Dean glanced over realizing that the last time he’d been in the Green Room, it had been non-functional.

“But it swings toward angels,” Cas pointed out, as if to say, if you could want an angel, why not Amara?

Dean rolled his eyes, “Ok, dude. Angel.  _ Angel _ . No plural there.”

“While I appreciate the reassurance of your commitment to monogamy, Dean. I -”

Dean cut back in before Castiel could finish his statement because he already knew it was wrong. “No, I’m saying I have no actual interest in any other supernatural beings. I also have no real interest in normal people anymore because that never works out. And it’s not about monogamy - it’s about you.”

“Oh,” Cas exhaled. 

He hated these moments. And he’d had about enough of them over the past two days. Dean felt raw and overexposed, stripped bare to his brother and Cas and even Gabriel, for fuck’s sake. He was tired, and pulling more of his guts out on the table was painfully hard. 

Dean felt nauseous and he sat down on the edge of the fountain, a hand to his stomach, before he continued, “Ugh. You’re gonna make me spell all this out.” 

Looking at the purple tufts of flowers Cas had been tending, rather than at his face, he mustered up the stamina.

“You are the only person I’ve ever met other than Sam who can actually do this crazy family business shit. You are damn hard to kill. I don’t have to constantly feel bad about dragging you into my life because hey - you dragged me into yours, but also you can handle yourself. 

“You’re a friggin angel. But unlike all the rest, you actually care about people and you’ll go against everyone and everything to do the right thing, or at least what you think is the right thing. Which sometimes is stupid wrong, but hey - you try. You’re my best friend AND Sam’s best friend. I’m not in this because I just feel like I should only have sex with one person at a time. I’m in it because you check all the boxes.”

Castiel stood stock still, but Dean wasn’t looking at his face, couldn’t. 

Finally, Castiel’s voice broke the silence as he parroted, “Check all the boxes?”

Dean put his face in his hands. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to die. 

“Yes, dude. You are everything I want and need.”

“Oh,” Cas echoed again, but this time it sounded stunned, speechless.

As the silence stretched out, Dean felt his anger rise up like a shield, pulling the deeper feelings of insecurity and rejection behind it. 

He grated out, “Just kind of laid it out on a platter for you, and it’s fucking crickets.” 

Castiel snapped to instantly, dropping down to one knee in front of Dean to put himself in Dean’s field of vision. If Dean wasn’t so on edge, he would have teased Cas about the posture, which was a mirror of a marriage proposal.

“I love you, and I find that I would like to be the person you adore above all others,” Cas said. 

Dean fell apart. He couldn’t handle it. He was uncomfortable, and it was hysterical. 

He almost fell off the fountain laughing. He buried his face in his hands as his whole body shook. He laughed until there were tears in the corners of his eyes.

“I might take offense if you don’t stop soon,” Cas warned seriously, sliding across the tile floor to close the gap between them by about a foot, but still not touching him.

He couldn’t help it, he laughed harder, but he reached out and grabbed Cas’ hand to reassure him as his other hand rubbed at the corner of his eyes. 

Taking a couple of big, exaggerated breaths, Dean was able to rein it back in. 

“Dean - ” Cas started, voice low and firm.

“Look, Cas. I don’t even tell Sam I love him.”

“Dean.”

“Do I need to sing a fucking song for you? Some Celine Dion? Taylor Swift?”

“Dean.”

Eyes flashing with irritation, Cas clapped his free hand over Dean’s mouth. His other hand, he left in Dean’s grip. 

“Shut up. I was merely trying to apologize for not being more upfront about what it was like as Lucifer’s vessel. I should have told you what Amara did and let you tell me if it was truthful or not.”

“Well, I think we’re both guilty of making assumptions.”

“I…” Cas took a deep breath and Dean pulled himself up straighter, preparing for whatever he was gearing up to say. “I never believed you loved me to begin with. So it wasn’t difficult to believe what she said. I’m ashamed that I let it impact me so much.”

Dean kept his mouth shut as Cas worked through what he needed to say. He was unsurprised. He’d never really wanted Cas to know that he loved him - Dean was afraid of what might happen if he did. In fact, he was always afraid that Castiel would do exactly what he had done. But he was even more afraid that Cas might bend himself to Dean’s love and become what he thought Dean wanted.

Cas continued, “I wanted you to be angry. I wanted it to be clear that I had hurt you.”

Dean snorted. Cas seemed to be the only person in the bunker who hadn’t realized he was in an epically bad mood. 

“I was pretending. And I honestly never thought I would get to keep this anyway. I figured you would move on someday once you had been here long enough that you got your head screwed on straight and realized there were better people out there to be with.”

Cas practically growled in return, “That is one of the most idiotic things I’ve ever heard you say. I will never not want you.”

That statement hit Dean hard. In the fairytale world of Sam Winchester, that was a done deal. Close up shop. Call it a day.

He wanted Cas. Cas wanted him. 

He needed a breather.

“So, the Green Room, huh?” He offered weakly.

Castiel tilted his head, but he allowed the distraction with a knowing look. “I need something to do with all the time we’ve had here at the bunker,” he explained.

Dean nodded, “I hear you there.”

Watching Dean look around, Cas released his hand and reached toward the wispy plant with purple stalks he’d been examining earlier. He plucked off the stalk and handed it to Dean. It smelled like girly soap.

“Lavandula angustifolia. Lavender. It has healing properties. It can also be used to increase psychic awareness and perception of the future.”

Dean could see where this was headed, and he was not on board for it. When Cas opened his mouth to continue his herbological tour of the Green Room, Dean surged up and grabbed the lapels of Cas’ trenchcoat, hauling his mouth to Dean’s. 

“I was looking for a distraction, not a lesson,” he murmured against Cas’ mouth.

“Ah,” was all Cas got out before Dean’s tongue lapped up the sound.

Dean kissed him forcefully, insistent, definitely trying to make him forget the Green Room, but more so - working to make both of them forget the events of the past couple of weeks even. Cas’ response was tentative - he kept his tongue curled further back and opened his lips only a little.

Groaning, Dean pulled away to complain, “Come on.”

“Dean, does this mean -” he started to ask.

What did it mean? There was only one possible answer to that question. What other answer could there be?

“Yeah,” Dean breathed against his mouth, hands threading underneath his coat and around his waist. “I mean, if you -”

Cas nodded first before he said, “I do.”

Then Cas’ hands, chilled from the cool air in the Green Room, came up around Dean’s neck. He slid just his fingertips from the side of Dean’s neck, up behind the sensitive skin behind his ears and into his hair. Dean shivered. Cas tugged and Dean’s breath hitched when Cas finally not only returned his kiss, but possessed his mouth entirely.

He held Dean’s head exactly where he wanted it and stroked the inside of Dean’s mouth, nipped and dragged teeth along his lips, until Dean couldn’t breathe. Dean didn’t care; he just tightened his grip around Cas’ waist and fit their bodies together from the knee up. 

There was something different about doing this knowing what Cas felt for him. It put a different spin on Cas’ usual possessiveness. Dean had always just figured it was some kind of kink, maybe an angel thing, but thinking about it being just for him went straight to his dick like a bolt of lightning. 

He found himself pressing and grinding into Cas’ hip like a teenager. 

“Sit down,” Cas murmured into his mouth and he did, immediately.

Cas loomed over him for a second, taking off his coat the old-fashioned way, then he knelt between Dean’s legs. Dean gulped, his cock jumping within the confines of his jeans in anticipation. 

Dean knew that Cas was capable of making his clothes disappear in an instant, so it was especially hot when Cas took Dean’s belt off in quick, practiced hands and then eased his zipper down while he gazed, unblinking, into Dean’s eyes. 

There was no preamble at all between Cas pulling him out from his boxers, half hard, and putting the entire length of him in his mouth. 

Scrabbling at the tile lip of the fountain, Dean fought the urge to collapse backwards into the trickling water, instead he threw just his head back. Blind, he threaded his fingers through Cas’ hair and groaned when Cas teased his tongue along the underside of the head of his cock. 

He slid his mouth off at points, but only to bite at Dean’s hip bones or to press sucking kisses near his belly button, and always when Dean was too close and needed to cool down a little. 

Cas had a familiarity with his body that no other person had beforehand, all of his previous relationships being too short-lived. 

Dean watched him, his lips shiny and puffy, his eyes watering. It was too much. Cas’ hands were resting on his thighs, not even restraining him from thrusting, and Dean grabbed his wrist to warn him.

Pulling away, Cas leaned his dark head against Dean’s abdomen. Dean kept his hand in his messy hair, feeling Cas’ breath tickle over the hair of his belly. 

“Dean, I want to -” Cas panted. 

“Yeah,” Dean cut him off to agree, and they were transported instantly into darkness.

Adjusting from the bright glare of sunlight to the darkness of his bedroom took several seconds, and as he flopped back onto the pillows, he heard Cas yank open the drawer of the bedside table. Cas was a vague shadow above him, kneeling between his legs. He regained enough of his senses to sit up and pull off his shirt, then wriggle the rest of the way out his jeans and underwear. 

As soon as Cas was naked too, there was a finger teasing around his hole and then sliding inside him almost immediately. 

“I missed this. I missed you,” Cas told him. Dean could make out his features now and they were worshipful. Cas had looked at him that way before, many times, but Dean had seen it as fascination, gratefulness. 

Cas worked him open efficiently, knowing exactly what Dean enjoyed and how much preparation he needed beforehand. He didn’t jump straight to the finish line, taking time to rub at Dean’s prostate from the inside and with his thumb also on Dean’s perineum. Cas also took time to watch his fingers disappearing inside him, because he knew Dean liked that, flicking his gaze between Dean’s eyes and down, to be sure Dean knew. 

When he slid his hand free, Dean tilted his head and pressed a kiss to the inside of Cas’ wrist, where it rested by his head. Taking himself in hand, Cas positioned the head of his cock at Dean’s entrance and pushed into him, forcing a moan out of his mouth. 

Cas leaned in close as he edged inside, mumbling, “You’re amazing,” against Dean’s shoulder.

Dean flexed his thighs up and let Cas settle against him as he slowly bottomed out until his balls rested along Dean’s ass. 

Cas set a steady pace, pulling almost completely out and then filling him up again, stopping once to add more lube as the long strokes started to create friction. Watching the angel fall apart above him was its own form of pleasure, and Dean may have only been half hard by the time Cas pulsed and shot inside of him, but he still was on fire. 

Dean held onto Cas’ biceps as he recovered his wits, studying the faraway look in Cas’ dark eyes. Finally, Cas slid out and tapped the side of Dean’s thigh as Dean let his feet fall back to the bed. 

“Up,” Cas explained as he took Dean’s hand and tugged them both off the bed and toward the bathroom. When he flicked the lights on, it was yet another shock to Dean’s system, and his pupils constricted again as he squinted. 

“Wow, first multiple-room sex escapade in a while,” Dean commented, smacking Cas’ ass as he leaned in to turn the knobs on the shower.

Once the water was running, Cas turned back with a smile and kissed Dean’s mouth again, still blissed out with afterglow. 

“I regret that we haven’t made better use of this time in the bunker,” Cas replied. 

“I’m not sure we could’ve covered 32 rooms even if you hadn’t been trying to break up with me the past three weeks,” Dean bit back, softening the blow by wrapping his arms around Cas and squeezing.

The bathroom started to fill with steam and Cas pulled him into the shower. 

“I’m sorry,” Cas said, and Dean waved it off like he didn’t need to hear Cas say it every day until they forgot all about this. “Although you may want to revise that total to 31. I don’t think Sam would appreciate us including his room.”

“Oh. We’re definitely fucking in Sam’s room.”

Cas’ attempted to look disapproving, but failed. His joy was too obvious. 

“OK, but consider the possible retribution given that Sam and Gabriel are -”

Dean clapped a hand to Cas’ mouth so forcefully, he accidentally banged Cas’ head back against the shower wall. He winced sympathetically, even though he knew he hadn’t  hurt Cas.

“Sorry,” he said, “but if you finish that sentence, we’re not going to be able to finish what we started here, and that would be a shame. Especially for me.”

“Got it,” Cas nodded seriously as Dean lifted his hand from his mouth, “No mention of Sam and -”

Dean clapped both hands over Cas’ mouth this time, levelling a threatening glare his way. Cas mimed zipping his lips up, and Dean wondered which of them had taught him that. When Dean still didn’t remove his hands, Cas reached up and pulled them away, saying, “I know another way you can shut me up.”

Then he dropped to his knees again under the spray. Dean gulped. Most of the time, Cas was just Cas. The goofy, high-diction bastard that annoyed the shit out of Dean and made him want to reconsider his beliefs on public displays of affection. But other times he was a wildly powerful Seraph who inspired trembling and fear. This was one of those times, and Dean had to look away as the angel’s mouth descended on him.

They stayed there until the water turned cold and he had to turn it off. Cas wrapped a towel around him and led him to the bed to finish, his skin goosepimpled from cold, even while he sweated and shook.

When they emerged from Dean’s room a little later, Dean stopped by the Great Room out of habit to poke at the fire and ran into Gabe and Sam. 

Sam was cooling down from his run, towel around his shoulders, and Gabe had his feet propped up on a table, leaning back in a chair with just one leg on the floor. Mid-conversation, they both looked up when Dean walked in. Dean froze like a deer in the headlights when Sam’s face lit up. 

He knew it was coming before he even looked at Gabe.

Confetti exploded in his face and the unmistakable opening guitar riff of “Feels Like the First Time” pulsed through the bunker. And fuck him, because Dean actually liked this song and now he would never be able to listen to it again in public.

Dean hadn’t regained his wits enough yet to react, before Cas emerged into the room behind him, asking, “What’s going on?”

“Just congratulating the happy couple,” Gabe explained as Dean turned on his heel and got the hell out of there, holding up both middle fingers over his shoulders as he went. 

Sam yelled, “Dean, wait!” But Dean could hear the barely contained laugh there, and he did not stop until the sounds of Foreigner cut out as he stepped out into the snow and closed the door to the bunker behind him. 

He beat at his clothes and tiny red and pink hearts fell off him into the snow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from I Can Change by Lake Street Drive.
> 
> This fic has a playlist! If you enjoy music, here are the songs that helped inspire and guide this fanfic: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7jNfMfZcNsuruH6mhpklZW?si=Tn5PrRwuRVWNy08duw-DCA.


	23. And I Watched You With My Thumb Above The Button

Later that night, confetti was still raining down in the Great Room and piling up in the corners and on the branches of the Christmas tree like pink snow. Dean took special care to avoid passing the room if he could. At the very least, Gabriel had cut it out with the music. 

Once a frozen pizza was in the oven, Dean stole Sam’s cell phone, at a loss for where he’d left his laying around after the whirlwind of the last couple of days, and gave Jody a call.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Dean-O?” She greeted him in lieu of a hello.

“Hey Jody. Look, Sam and I have been grounded at the bunker for the last few weeks and it happens to be Christmas-y as hell around here. Do you and the girls have plans on Christmas day?”

“Why, Dean. I thought you’d never ask,” she joked.

“Well, don’t get too excited. I have no idea how to cook a Christmas meal for five. I was kind of hoping…” Dean smiled widely and attempted to put on the charm even through the phone. 

“I’ve got all the groceries bought already, and I always make too much. So I can just bring lunch.”

Dean sighed and clutched at his chest. Sam rolled his eyes from the other side of the room. “Jody, you are the love of my life.”

“Alright, don’t lay it on there too thick, bud.” He could picture Jody lifting an eyebrow. “It’s just a ham.”

“I’m serious,” Dean replied. “If you bring pie, I may just propose.”

His eyes flicked over Cas, who looked not at all bothered, but he winked anyway and kicked at the leg of his chair with the toe of his boot. Based on the head tilt Cas gave in  response, his attempt at reassurance seemed to confuse him more than anything. Dean turned back to the stove before he could get a glimpse of Sam’s stupid face, which was undoubtedly the definition of glee. 

“I will bring pie, but I don’t think your angel will appreciate you getting down on one knee for me,” Jody replied.

Dean was glad his back was turned again because he could hide his slack-jawed gape of surprise. “Uhhhh.”

“Dean, you’re not exactly subtle. We all know. Now, consider lunch taken care of and just make sure that weirdo bachelor pad is tidied up before I bring two teenage girls there. We’ll get there a little early so we can reheat everything. Say around 11am?”

Shutting his mouth with an audible click, Dean just said, “Yes ma’am.”

“See you then! And don’t call me ma’am.” 

She hung up. 

Dean might have stayed staring at the skillet, facing away from everyone, for a little too long after he hung up because eventually Sam said, “Dude. Give me back my phone.” 

Shaking his head and letting out a slow exhale, he figured it was just as well that the cat was out of the bag anyway because it seemed like things had gotten pretty real between him and Cas. He was just glad he wasn’t having to have the opposite conversation with Jody about him and Cas  _ not  _ being a thing anymore.

He chucked the phone at his brother, who squawked as he nearly tipped his chair plucking it out of the air. 

As Sam settled back in his chair at the kitchen table, he turned to Gabriel, who sat next to him at the table,“So, Gabe, we never got to hear about the final showdown with the Holly King.”

For the first time that night, Dean actually looked at Gabriel, interested in hearing his answer. 

Gabe shifted a little uncomfortably, his eyes flicked to Castiel. Cas narrowed his eyes threateningly, gaze locked in Gabe. An uncomfortable silence stretched on. 

Dean flicked his gaze to Sam and arched an eyebrow at his brother. Some kind of quiet exchange was passing between the angel and the archangel. Sam also appeared confused. 

Tension filled the room as Cas’ pupils dilated and started to fill with light. A glass of water on the table rippled and trembled.

“What the hell?” Dean asked.

“Fine!” Gabe smacked the table with a hand in defeat and all of the tension left his shoulders. “You win… for now.”

Cas leaned back in his seat, looking almost smug, as smug as Cas was capable of looking. His eyes faded back to blue.

“What is going on is that your boyfriend is cockblocking me,” Gabe grumped. “If you think I didn’t have an entire playlist lined up to celebrate your renewed honey-dicking, you don’t know me at all.”

“Once he’s back at full strength, I’ll have far less of an advantage,” Cas explained apologetically.

“Seriously, Sam? A fucking trickster god?” Dean turned to his brother.

“Dean-O, sweet Dean,” Gabe cut in first, reaching over to pluck a stray confetting heart out of Dean’s hair. “You just make it so easy. And as someone who had three asshole older brothers, I’m sure you’re owed some payback.”

“Huh,” Dean gazed at Cas, impressed. Then he turned back to Gabe, “You know what, I don’t care anymore. Bring on the confetti. Bring on the love songs, especially if they are going to be classics like Foreigner. Light some fucking fireworks for all I care.”

Cas exhaled suddenly, as if he’d been holding his breath, and some dramatic eighties keyboard filled the room, resounding out of non-existent speakers, along with a slow drum beat. 

“Oh god no,” Sam groaned, burying his head in his hands.

When the first lines to ‘I Want to Know What Love Is’ started, Dean draped his arms over Sam’s shoulders and leaned down to sing in his ear.

“ _ I’ve gotta take a little time. A little time to think things over _ .  _ I’ve gotta read between the lines, in case I need it when I’m older _ .” 

Sam attempted to sink down into his chair.

The timer on the oven sounded, and Dean released Sam, smacking him upside the head, saying, “Saved by the bell.”

Dean pulled the pizza out of the oven with a wet towel and jumped, throwing the hot pan on top of the stove as the heat sank through the towel. He was still singing under his breath  _ because Foreigner _ when Gabe said, “I like just-fucked Dean. Just-fucked Dean is fun.”

The music faded into Hot Blooded next while they ate, Dean sitting closer to Cas than necessary, with his knee brushing along his pant leg as his leg tapped along to the steady, repetitive beat. After he hoovered down three slices of pizza while Sam was still picking away at one, he threw his arm over the back of Cas’ chair. Because, hey, if he was going to catch shit for it, he might as well lean into it.

Having to raise his voice to be heard, Sam said, “Gabe, you still haven’t answered the question.”

Raising one eyebrow, Gabe replied, “Noticed that did you?”

Dean glanced between the two of them, suddenly all too aware of how out of his mind he must have been the past few weeks, because the flirting was out of control. He honestly didn’t care to know about Gabe’s trial, he just didn’t want to watch his brother make bedroom eyes with someone at the kitchen table. 

“Welp,” he cut in before they could continue, bringing his hand up around Cas’ head to tap the table and stand. “I’m going to my room. Just please, for the love of all things holy, keep it down.”

  
  
  


When Dean left first from the kitchen, Cas following soon after, Sam got up with a groan to take care of the dishes, starting to itch with the anxiety of being alone in the room with Gabe and the anticipation of what might happen. The music faded off as the latest AC/DC song started to come to a close, leaving just the sounds of running water.

He was barely through scrubbing crunchy bits off the cast iron before the faucet shut off and the dishes appeared in the drying rack beside him, sparkling clean. The skillet in his hands was black and gleaming like it had just been seasoned. 

Turning around slowly, he cast a look Gabe’s way and gingerly sat the skillet down on the counter top. 

Gabe had commandeered his phone and was playing some sort of autorunning game. He did not look up. 

As Sam dried his hands off on a towel, he marvelled, “You know. I feel like I’ve really been deceived up til now on the real benefits of having an angel around.”

“You mean because Cas never does your dishes for you?” Gabe glanced up briefly with an eyebrow raised before looking back down at the phone.

While it likely didn’t occur to Cas to take care of the numerous day-to-day chores humans had to do, Sam also blamed it on Dean, who liked to do things the old-fashioned way and had some sort of weird obsession with hard labor. 

Gabriel crowed, clearly winning his game, and he set Sam’s phone down on the table, meeting Sam’s eyes fully with mischief in his eyes.

“To be fair, Cas also doesn’t have ulterior motives, at least not where you’re concerned.”

Sam felt his hands tremble, so he crossed his arms over his chest to hide it, trying to project nonchalance as he leaned back on the counter. 

“So question for you,” Sam held his voice steady through a force of will.

Gabe cocked his head, a canny smile as if he was onto Sam’s game, but he said, “Shoot.”

“What about the other angels? What happens if they all go insane?” The question had been on his mind for days, even before the solstice. Because while Gabriel was the  _ only  _ threat that mattered unless they won, now that they had, there was a lot more to think about.

Gabe shrugged, trading out the flirtatious light in his eyes for a more closed expression. “Don’t know. I doubt they’ll all go insane. Just some of them.”

“So you’re just washing your hands clean of heaven?” Sam asked, but without sting or accusation, just a question. 

“I washed my hands clean of that a long time ago,” Gabe replied. “I found out that getting in the middle of it rarely did any good. Without Chuck around, they treat the archangels like a surrogate god. They’d just try to put me in charge, and I sure as shit don’t want to be in charge.”

“That’s fair,” Sam nodded. “But if it spills over onto Earth, we might have to do something about it.” Sam paused, then amended his statement. “Dean and I, I mean.”

Gabe just shrugged, fingers drumming on the table with his uncontainable, endless energy. He stared openly at Sam, letting the discussion fall flat, clearly disinterested in the family he’d left behind. Sam didn’t blame him. Being stuck between Michael and Lucifer was something he was familiar with, and it was enough to turn you off on angels forever. 

“Dean and I are going to leave the day after Christmas. I found our next hunt earlier today,” Sam changed the topic. 

He was digging, and it was probably too obvious. Why was Gabe sticking around? He didn’t need the wards of the bunker anymore to dampen the echoes of his darkness. And he had clearly recovered enough to leave.

Pushing up off the table, Gabe stood and stretched. Then he walked around the side of the table in even steps to stand in front of Sam, humming affirmatively in response. 

Subconsciously, Sam slouched down a bit, sinking his feet out an inch or two, bringing him just a little bit closer in height to the archangel. 

Sam continued delicately, “If you want to stick around through Christmas, you’re welcome to. We wouldn’t even have to trouble Jody with cooking for another person.”

Gabe rested his hands on the counter on either side of Sam’s hips.

“I think I can swing that,” he said casually, but the heat in his eyes belied his cool response.

Sam unwound his arms slowly, resting just the barest touch against either side of Gabe’s ribs. Leaning down to capture his lips was both strange and familiar. Sam had to lean down for pretty much everyone, but the particular height difference between him and Gabe wasn’t something he’d experienced before when kissing a man. 

When they broke apart, Gabe commented, “You have been a very welcome surprise in all this.”

“So you didn’t set out specifically to seduce me then?” Sam teased, mostly just for something to say.

Gabe huffed a small laugh. 

“Well, I didn’t know you were sporting a full on three-hander down there or else I would have jumped your bones ages ago.”

Sam flushed red and looked away, groaning with embarrassment, while Gabe laughed. Placing his hands on Sam’s hips, Gabe blinked them into Sam’s bedroom, a foot above the bed, in their same positions but horizontal. They fell the rest of the way to the unmade bed, and Sam oofed in surprise. Gabriel braced cat-like above him, hands and knees landing on either side of him, having the benefit of actually knowing what would happen before it did. 

This time, Gabe wore him out, using his hands and his mouth and doing his magic multiple hand trick to find every other spot on his body that would make Sam squirm or arch. He growled into Sam’s ear that they could fuck in any location, any scene, Sam could imagine, and Sam told him it was already novel enough having someone here with him in  _ his  _ room in the bunker. 

“Next time,” he promised, crawling down Gabe’s body to return the favor. 

Afterward, Gabe made the mess disappear and even the sheets beneath Sam slithered taut as they straightened out. Sam was halfway through thinking he was going to have to run more often if Gabe was going to keep making it so easy for him to spend so much time in bed, then he shook his head, remembering that they’d both be back to their normal lives in just a couple nights. 

Sam was on his back, eyes shut, mind starting to drift off into the fog of sleep when Gabe spoke. 

“You know,” he mused, sitting up against the headboard, “we could always kick out the spares and use that handy-dandy lockdown feature to hole up in here for a while longer and keep this thing going.”

Blinking awake, it took Sam’s brain several seconds to comprehend what Gabe was suggesting. Gabe wasn’t looking at him, and Sam couldn’t see his expression to tell how serious he was.

“Yeah… yep,” Sam replied, voice hoarse with sleep, “That sounds super serial killer creepy.”

Gabe all out laughed, throwing his head back and rattling the bed with it. 

“What can I say? Sex god, I may be. But I’m a little rusty on the romancing part.”

Sam’s eyes opened more fully as his brain fog cleared. “Are you trying to romance me?”

“Absolutely,” Gabe said, straight up, and as always Sam had no idea if he was being facetious. Sam also had no idea if he wanted it to be serious.

Clearing his throat, Sam asked, “So what are you going to do after Christmas?”

“You know. Accept the sacrifices, sleep with vestal virgins, strike down the wicked.”

Sam snorted. 

“But, I mean, you know how to reach me. And I know how to reach you,” Gabe continued, and this time he did look down at Sam, meeting his eyes. 

“Yeah,” Sam replied, then his eyebrows arched as he considered Gabe’s comment. “Wait wait wait. Are you suggesting that I use prayer to make a booty call?”

He caught a flash of Gabe’s grin before he looked away again, “Yep. That would be accurate. Delightful even. Heavenly. Although you can give me a ring for other reasons too.”

“OK,” Sam agreed sleepily.

His eyes fell shut and he started to drift.

“And one of those times I’ll tell you about my trial,” Gabe promised.

Sam came to just long enough to peer up at Gabriel, who was still looking off into a dark corner of the room. With surprise, he asked, “You will?”

“Yeah.”

Gabe stayed until Sam drifted off, which was very little time at all, but he was gone later when Sam woke up to use the bathroom. 

  
  
  


“What kind of wine does Jody prefer?”

“Beats me, Cas. Last time we were over there, we drank a red,” Dean shrugged, bent in half and leaning his whole upper body against his forearms on the handle of a shopping cart. He was thrumming with boredom and energy, already gearing up for the hunt Sam had found. 

Castiel glanced around, out of his depth when it came to modern wines. He noticed a chalk sign for ‘Italy’ and walked that way, Dean trailing behind.

“We should probably just go with one of the big bottles. Bang for your buck and all?” Dean stopped at the entrance to the Italian wine area, pointing at a large jug of pink liquid at the end of the aisle. 

Castiel glanced at the label - it said blend - so he turned it around to try to learn more. Finally, he turned away, saying, “That grape doesn’t even grow in that region.”

“You know things about wine?”

“Wine-making is one of the oldest human traditions. I would say I at least know more about wine than I do about breakfast cereal.”

Dean snorted as they looked over Montepulcianos and Chiantis, “That’s not necessarily saying a lot.”

Castiel crouched over to look at some of the wines on the lower shelves, examining years and types of grapes, trying to remember what he could about these older wine growing regions. A skylight from above illuminated dust motes floating over the green tint of the bottles and caught in the corner of his eyes, making him squint. 

After turning one of the bottles in its cradle, he wrapped his fingers around it and started to stand to put it in the cart. As he stood up, he nearly collided with Dean. 

Dean jerked back and Castiel spun around, staring at Dean with surprise. He looked embarrassed at being caught craning over Castiel. 

“What are you doing?”

Dean opened and closed his mouth once before finally blurting out, “You have gray hairs.”

Castiel blinked. “Yes. Is that strange?”

Dean’s eyes went wide and flitted around the store, as if he was making sure they were alone, landing only on the cashier, who was the only other human in the building. Castiel couldn’t help tilting his head, trying to understand Dean’s reaction. 

Finally, his eyes turned back fully to Castiel, and he said, “Uhh. I mean, yeah. I didn’t realize your body might age.”

Castiel felt a little thread of nervousness uncurl in his ribcage. Dean was an especially difficult person to pin down - he rarely expressed his needs and wants, and yet expected them to be met. Over the years, Cas recognized that while Dean appreciated the utility of having an angel around when it came to hunting, he was uncomfortable with Castiel appearing too inhuman in more intimate or day-to-day moments. 

Dean had never imagined being successful in a long-term relationship, that Castiel knew. So Castiel tried to anticipate what unspoken wants he might have. They had known each other for long enough that if Castiel’s body was not aging, it would have been noticeable.

But maybe he had gotten this guess wrong?

“Does it bother you?” Castiel asked.

“No, of course not,” Dean reassured, as if Castiel might be offended if he was bothered. Castiel had another question on his lips when Dean started wheeling the cart away, saying, “Nevermind.”

Castiel felt on edge now, uncertain if he’d done something wrong, so he just grabbed the first $10 bottle of french wine he saw, trailing after Dean who was speeding off toward the refrigerated section at the back. Everything still felt too unsure, too unsettled between them for him to be confident pressing Dean for answers.

Dean had been more open with him than he ever had been before, but there were still words left unsaid. Castiel was certain that Dean had been reluctant, uncertain of his decision going into the conversation in the Green Room. 

Things had been easier before, and perhaps they would become easier again. But right now, he just wished he knew what Dean was feeling all the time.

Dean threw two six packs in the cart and went to the cashier, not looking at Castiel. This time, Castiel didn’t follow, just stepped outside into the cold air and waited by the car. It was blindingly bright outside between the sun glaring off the Impala and glowing as it hit the nearby snowbanks. Castiel’s breath was visible on the air. 

With two bags in hand and the cart left behind, Dean emerged from the store and opened up the backseat of the Impala to put the bags in the floorboard. Castiel was reaching for the passenger door handle when Dean grabbed a handful of the sleeve of his coat and dragged him off. 

Glancing warily around, Castiel’s guard came up as Dean dragged him out of view and into the alleyway beside the store. Before he could ask what Dean had seen, Dean had pressed him up against the brick wall of the store and brought their mouths together. 

A question was halfway to Castiel’s lips already, and it just ended in a surprised murmur instead, which Dean lapped up with his tongue. Dean raised his hands, doing something he’d never done before. He grazed his palms over Castiel’s ears while his thumbs brushed from the corner of Castiel’s eyes over his temples and into his hair. 

Castiel pulled away as realization hit him, “You like the gray hair.”

Dean glared at him like he was being smug. Perhaps he was. It was difficult to tell beneath a tidal wave of relief. Castiel couldn’t help but laugh.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” Dean grinned. 

“Sorry, I was nervous that you disapproved.”

“No. I was just surprised. And then I needed to get out of that store because it was doing things to me,” Dean admitted.

“Aging is attractive to you?” Castiel pitched his voice lower, wrapping his hands around Dean’s waist and pulling him closer.

Dean huffed and then stuttered around a response, “No, it’s - I dunno. Some people look good with gray hair.”

“I look good with gray hair,” Castiel corrected, smirking. Doing something that Dean hadn’t asked for, but that he desired was elating. It was addictive. 

Dean hid his face against Castiel’s shoulder, “Yes. Fine. You look good with gray hair, asshole.”

Leaning in, Castiel brought his mouth back to Dean’s again, mostly just teasing with brief, parted mouth touches. When they pulled away, Dean asked, “I have to ask - are you  doing it on purpose?”

Castiel wished he could say no, because he figured that would be what Dean would want to hear. 

“Yes. I thought you would prefer if I aged with you.”

Dean smiled, just a small quirk, and looked down, shaking his head, “My life is so fucking weird.” 

After they got back into the car, Dean flipped on some music, but kept the volume relatively low, indicating that he was open to conversation if it came up. Castiel gazed over the vast fields of snow out of the window in the companionable silence, considering whether he should accompany the brothers on their upcoming hunt. 

“Dean,” he said and Dean glanced over at him in acknowledgement, “I’ve been thinking about heaven, and I think I may need to return to try to find a way to fix what’s happening.”

Nodding, Dean replied, “Yeah, a bunch of crazy angels is a bad situation. We at least need to have eyes on what’s going on up there. But, listen,” he paused to look at Castiel again, “let’s figure this out together - me, you and Sam.”

“I’m not sure how you and Sam could help. And I wouldn’t ask you to either. It’s not your fight.”

“Not our fight  _ yet _ . Look, that shit is going to spill over to Earth at some point. It always does.” 

While Castiel did not disagree with Dean, he didn’t see how either of the brothers could aid him. 

“It will be very dangerous. Israfil extinguished hundreds of souls in seconds.”

“Dangerous is kind of the job,” Dean grumbled, rolling his eyes. “Plus, if it’s your fight, it’s our fight too.”

Castiel opened his mouth to argue again, but Dean cut him off.

“Look, Cas. If this is going to work we both actually have to start talking to each other and making decisions together. No more surprises. No more doing shit we think is best for each other without even talking to the other person about it. We have to be a team.”

He studied Dean’s profile for a bit. Dean didn’t return his gaze, just stared ahead at the road, unreadable. 

“A team,” Castiel echoed, weighing the word. 

“Yeah, a team. So if you’ll just hold your fucking horses, we can talk to Sam about it and you two can do your nerd shit and come up with a plan so that we can do this together.”

Castiel looked back out the window, considering the danger and what Dean was requesting. This time, right now, he could say yes. But in the long-term, there could be other crossroads they might come to where that decision might be harder - where they couldn’t come to an agreement, where what was right would be clear regardless of eachother. But Castiel wanted to try. Now, and in the future.

When he glanced back to Dean, the corner of his jaw was tight, as if he believed Castiel had already given his answer.

“Ok, a team,” Castiel agreed.

Dean’s posture loosened. 

“We’ll talk to Sam then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from The Last Temptation of Adam by Josh Ritter.
> 
> This fic has a playlist! If you enjoy music, here are the songs that helped inspire and guide this fanfic: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7jNfMfZcNsuruH6mhpklZW?si=Tn5PrRwuRVWNy08duw-DCA.


	24. Wait For Me As I Wait For You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sweet Christmas send off to our characters. I'm not crying, you're crying.

“Well, color me impressed. You boys went all out.”

Alex and Claire stepped into the bunker behind Jody and closed the door, bells jingling. The salt line was gone from the front door, but Dean had relit whatever candles had survived the night of the solstice and the evergreen, holly and ivy were still looking fresh where they rested on shelves and tables.

Dean had taken down the mistletoe, though, trusting that teenagers would find some way to make that awkward.

After showing them the coat closet, Jody grabbed Dean in a hug while Claire stalked past him into the house without greeting and Alex followed after, saying, “Hey, Dean.”

Dean eyed them suspiciously, but figured Cas would prevent them from getting into anything dangerous.

“We were forced to decorate,” Dean explained as Jody released him. “Well, I guess that’s half true. We were forced to go all out, but Cas and Sam had already started acting like HGTV around here.”

Jody raised an eyebrow, “Forced to, huh?”

Dean shrugged and looped his arm in Jody’s to give her the tour, “Yeah, you know us. Decking the halls, killing the sugar plum fairy.”

Jody pulled up short. 

“That’s a real thing?” As Dean opened his mouth, she held up a hand and shook her head. “Wait. I don’t want to know.”

As they walked into the hallway, Sam shouted, “Jody!” then lumbered down the hallway with his long steps to grab her in a hug.

They caught up with Alex and Claire in the Great Room, where Cas was standing by a bookshelf beside Claire attempting to ask her about school while she shot back one-word answers. Alex was rubbing her hands by the fireplace, which had just the remnants of the yule log still burning at the bottom and fresh wood stacked on top. 

Jody walked over to Cas and, to his surprise, also grabbed him in a hug, saying, “Merry Christmas.”

He patted her once on the back, awkwardly, and replied, “Merry Christmas, Jody.” She released him with a snort of laughter.

All heads turned then to Gabriel, and Sam clammed up so hard that Dean decided to take pity on him, given that it was Christmas day.

“Everyone, Gabriel. Gabriel, Jody, Alex, Claire,” Dean pointed to each woman as he named them. “He’s not staying for lunch, just dropping in.”

Jody’s eyes flicked between Castiel and Gabriel, not missing a beat.

“And how do we know Gabriel?” Jody asked.

“Uhh,” Dean considered, then realized just how long it really had been. “We go a long way back, I guess. He helped us with some business, and it turns out we were able to return the favor.” 

“So you’re a hunter too then?” Alex asked, politely. 

“Not quite, kid,” Gabriel shrugged and the ceiling started snowing again. 

“Cool,” Claire said, holding out her hand to catch some of the flakes. 

“Ohhkay, Sammy - let’s go get the food from Jody’s car,” Dean grabbed Sam’s arm and pulled him out of the room. 

Jody rejoined them in the kitchen as they unloaded covered dishes on the table. She set the oven to the right temperature and smacked Dean’s hand when he tried to pull the foil up on the edge of a pie. Once they had come up with a plan to rotate pans in and out to get them back to the right temperature, Dean got out three beers for them and Jody leaned back against the counter with her arms over her chest.

“I don’t need to worry about your friend Gabriel and whatever he is, do I?”

Sam shook his head, “He’s like Cas.”

“You’ve both told me a lot about angels, so that kinda doesn’t comfort me,” she pointed out.

Dean and Sam both spoke at the same time.

“We trust him.”

Sam looked at Dean with surprise, and Dean just shrugged, “Look, he’s kind of an asshole, but more a run of the mill asshole. We wouldn’t have let him stay if we worried about him being around you all.”

“Ok. Well I trust  _ you two _ and your judgement,” she unwound her arms and grabbed the beer Dean had set beside her, inclining the neck of it toward them. They all clinked their beers together, then headed back to the Great Room. 

Alex and Gabe were in deep conversation, and Sam shot a look of concern Dean’s way before hightailing it over to interrupt. Dean laughed at Sam’s panic before joining Cas and Claire over by the tree. Both of them had snow in their hair, and Claire wore an annoyed expression. 

As Dean walked up, Cas’ eyes held a plea for help, and Dean hesitated before thinking, what the hell, and rested his hand at the base of Cas’ spine. Claire’s eyes tracked the movement, then her eyes twitched back to the Christmas tree.

“I’m sorry you’re missing part of the ski trip,” Cas picked back up the conversation. 

She shrugged, then looked straight at Dean as she said, “It’s fine. I told him I had to spend Christmas day with the angel that kidnapped my dad and his boyfriend.” 

Dean felt the tension shoot straight up Cas’ spine, and he knew that only he could read Claire’s quirked lips and wry comment for what they were: teasing. Fucking teenagers. He stroked his thumb firmly down Cas’ backbone, attempting reassurance.

“Wow. You’re messed up, kid,” Dean retorted.

“Learned from the best,” she arched an eyebrow at him.

Dean tipped his beer toward her in acknowledgement, “You’re not wrong there.” 

She looked down at his beer and suddenly he knew her game. He’d played that game before. 

“Can I have one of those?”

“I don’t care, but you’ll have to clear it by Jody,” Dean replied and Claire stalked off with a huff.

He leaned in to Cas’ side and said quietly, “She’s trying to make you feel bad to get what she wants.” 

“Manipulation,” Cas murmured thoughtfully, neither a question nor a statement. 

“Yeah, and you’re an easy mark.”

They broke out the wine when the ham and sides were finally warm and ready. While Jody wasn’t looking, Dean poached a few pieces of ham and shoved them into his mouth all at once, and when she turned around to shoo him away, a memory of Christmas with Mary hit him so hard he choked and Sam hammered on his back while he tried to escape. 

After lunch, Dean rubbed his stomach, full of second servings, but not thirds because he needed room for pie, while Sam, Cas and Jody chit-chatted about the upcoming hunt and Jody’s latest case. Gabe had disappeared before the food was ready, presumably disinterested in watching a bunch of humans stuff their faces.

“Where did you get all this anyway?” Claire interjected, leaning over the balcony from the mezzanine holding a particularly creepy-looking santa statue. 

“Some of it was put away in storage here in the bunker - like the one you’re holding,” Sam answered. “The rest of it came from the woods and Hobby Lobby.”

“Hobby Lobby?” Jody asked, amused. 

“The Hobby Lobby was… a confusing place,” Cas replied. Dean huffed out a laugh while Jody grinned.

“Isn’t that the place that won’t give its employees birth control?” Alex asked, looking up from her phone. Like Claire, she’d left the table after eating too, perching in a chair by the fire with her eyes glued to her phone.

Dean met Sam’s eyes and both of them looked at Jody together uncomfortably.

She rolled her eyes, “Yes. That’s the place where they got an exemption to not have to cover employees’ birth control under their health insurance plan.”

“I fail to see the connection between contraceptives and crafting,” Cas commented, confused.

Alex and Claire both tittered with laughter, and Dean buried his head in his hand, rubbing his eyes.

Claire rested her arms on the rail of the mezzanine and leaned over with a smirk, saying, “They’re just run by one of those Christians who thinks the best birth control is anal.”

“Hey!” Jody griped.

“I am beginning to gather that it may not have been entirely bad that demons destroyed the Hobby Lobby and that we did not pay for these candles,” Castiel said to Sam, who had to jump up from the table and turn away to keep himself from breaking down into hysterics. 

Jody’s eyes went wide and she glared at Dean as if he was to blame. 

“Ok, look,” Dean held up his hands. “Stealing is bad. No stealing until you’re… well, no stealing. There’s your PSA for the day.”

With a long sigh, Jody shook her head and stood up from the table, “Dessert anyone?”

“Ooo. Me. Definitely me,” Dean raised his hand. 

Once she’d gotten everyone’s dessert orders and preferences she pointed at Cas. “You. Come help me.” 

As he followed her out the door, he looked back at Dean with fear in his eyes. 

There was more than one pie - apple  _ and  _ pecan - and Dean was in heaven, even while his stomach rebelled. 

Above them, sunlight streamed in from the windows at the mezzanine level, making the candles unnecessary, but still festive. The tree was bare and still crooked, like a fat spinning top, and snow gathered on the limbs. There was an odd mix of real and false greenery, twinkling lights and mostly antique and sometimes eerie decorations scattered about. 

It was perfect, and Dean couldn’t recall a better Christmas. 

  
  
  


The girls headed out a few hours later, not able to stay too late with the sun setting so early, and Dean passed out on the couch in a food coma while Castiel helped Sam take down and start to pack away decorations. 

Jody put together just a few plates of leftovers, with Sam insisting that they didn’t need much given that they were heading out first thing in the morning and usually subsisted mostly on coffee while they were on the road. He promised to update her on how the hunt went, and then the bunker grew still and quiet after they pulled out of the drive.

Later that night, Sam slipped back into the kitchen to pilfer leftovers and pie, finding Dean and Cas already there, talking softly. Dean pushed a covered plate of leftovers to the center of the table gamely.

“Hey, remember when this all started after that bottle of whisky broke?” Dean said around a bite of pie.

Sam swallowed before responding, “Yeah.”

“In my dream, Wild Hunt dad made us do this thing he called the ‘three wise men’ to celebrate Christmas,” Dean explained.

Gabe appeared in the fourth and final chair at the table, arms across his chest, and both Winchesters jumped. “That’s an old norse tradition, actually. Interesting name the cavalcade is giving it now.”

“If it involves violence, sex, or eating, I’m out,” Sam dead-panned, repressing a shiver as he relived one of the more recent visions of debauchery he was forced to experience.

“Guess you’re in then,” Dean smirked, jumping to his feet. “Grab twelve shot glasses, Sammy.”

Sam did not move, just narrowed his eyes at Dean, “Do we even have twelve shot glasses?”

“Huh,” Dean paused, hand wrapped around the neck of the bottle of vodka in the freezer. “Good point. Line up twelve of whatever we’ve got and we’ll pour shots into that.”

Grumbling, Sam stood up and started pulling glasses from the cabinet. When he put down a coffee mug, pint glass and shot glass down in front of Cas, the angel cast a look at Dean.

“Dean, this will not have the desired effect for us,” he protested.

“Shut your pie hole, Cas. It’s Christmas tradition,” Dean said as he poured vodka into shot glass and then dumped it into the coffee mug.

Rolling his eyes, Sam jumped in, “Since when is this a Christmas tradition for us?”

“It is now,” Dean shrugged, “One shot for each wiseman. Whiskey, vodka, tequila, in that order.”

“Getting hammered for Christmas is an age old tradition,” Gabe supplied helpfully. Sam shot a suspicious look at him, worried that with Dean in a better mood, Gabe and Dean were discovering that they might actually like each other, or at least could benefit from teaming up. It was a chilling thought.

Sam opened the cabinet and pulled out the tequila, then realized they had a problem. “Welp, remember how the whisky bottle broke? That means we have no whisky.”

“Fuck,” Dean exhaled, looking put out.

Gabe hopped to his feet and brandished one of the empty glasses set in front of him.

“Look, you may not have Jesus Christ in your midst, but you do have the archangel Gabriel and if I can’t turn water into whisky, who can?” 

Flipping on the faucet, he filled the glass with water. By the time he handed it off to Dean, it had transformed, amber-colored and thick. Dean lifted it to his nose and sniffed it, impressed, then said, “It’s a Christmas miracle.”

“Don’t say I never did anything for you,” Gabe said before dropping back down in his chair.

“I hope that’s top shelf,” Sam muttered.

Gabe smirked, “Well, I thought Johnny Red would be in good company with this other swill you all have lying around here, but I thought I’d add a little class and upgrade you to an aged Maccallen scotch.”

Sam filled up four glasses with tequila, and Dean followed behind him, topping off the shot glasses with whisky from the glass, spilling a good bit of it on the table given the non-traditional vehicle. 

Finally coming to stand by the table, Dean plucked up his shot glass from the table and said, “Gentlemen, it’s been real. Let’s not do this next year.”

He tipped the glass toward them, and then downed it, each of them following, drinking each of the ‘shots’ in quick succession.

Sam finished his ‘shots’ last, a dribble of vodka trailing down his chin because trying to drink straight liquor from a coffee mug is a terrible idea. He winced, eyes screwed up, for several long seconds because finishing on the shit tequila was a terrible idea.

When he opened his eyes, he regretted it instantly because his gaze landed straight on the site of his brother planting a kiss on Cas. He flinched his gaze away, flicking toward Gabe instead, who was already looking at him, eyes following the path of the drop of vodka winding down tendons of his neck.

Raising his hand, Gabe brushed his thumb under Sam’s shirt collar, right along his collar bone, wicking away the bead of liquor. His gaze flicked back up to Sam’s and he winked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Our Love by Judah & the Lion.
> 
> The three wise men is shamelessly lifted from Letterkenny. If you are into Christmas, check out their Christmas episode!
> 
> This fic has a playlist! If you enjoy music, here are the songs that helped inspire and guide this fanfic: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7jNfMfZcNsuruH6mhpklZW?si=Tn5PrRwuRVWNy08duw-DCA.

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this fic in October, fully intending to release it before Christmas, and it turned into a monster. So I am just now releasing it in mid-January! Oh well.
> 
> I recognize that not all of this may be accurate to canon. I honestly am a somewhat casual Supernatural watcher, and I actually haven't watched Season 12 and beyond yet, although through researching this fic, I recognize that Gabriel does indeed come back later! I made a point to pause in watching future episodes while I wrote this so it didn't interfere with my vision for this fic. I also just really dig super-powered Cas and Gabriel, so I didn't pay much attention to the whole do they have powers, do they not have powers back and forth dynamic. 
> 
> I also will say that I set out to write a destiel fic, and somehow it became just as much a sabriel fic. I don't know how that happened! I was inspired by an old LOTR favorite called Common Cause by McGuffan to write an established relationship dynamic where a misunderstanding about a third party comes between Dean and Cas. Then, because I felt like the fandom neglects Sam too much, and I set out to really invest time in him. Then all of a sudden I was falling in love with Gabriel too, and they just naturally ended up coming together. 
> 
> It has been more than ten years since I read fanfiction regularly, and even longer than that since I have written. In fact, this counts just two fics I have ever completely finished. The pandemic has put me back in touch with my creativity, and I have found that being older, I have far less time to write and read, but far more confidence and skill. I was so thrilled to write this fic - it's really been a whole paradigm shift for me. I hope you enjoyed it! Be gentle with the comments. I'm rusty.


End file.
